Coalesce
by EpicDetour9
Summary: *ON HIATUS. NOT ABANDONED* More details inside. This story is a challenge from my sister. It's a mash-up between many of the YA Dystopian novels to create a new story. Divergent is one of the primary novel's referenced. I'm not good at summaries, much better than it sounds!
1. Chapter 1

Hey everyone! My sister and I both LOVE the Divergent books—as well as any YA Dystopian Novel—and a few months ago, she challenged me to create a story that combined many of the books we love into one story, as well as my own story line.

So basically, I came up with a story idea and my own characters, and then I've incorporated many of the ideas and dialogue or characters (mostly the names) of other books (mainly Divergent) into this story. I hope that makes sense. I've always sucked at wording things.

But as I was creating this story in my head, I decided to also incorporate a TV show and movie into this as well to fit in with my idea.

I'll list all the books, TV show, and movie I'll be mixing into this story. If you've read or watched any of them, then you'll definitely recognize lines and names of characters. A lot of the dialogue I've used is changed in some way or another to fit in with the story, and a lot of stuff I wrote myself.

Here are the books I've used:

Divergent and Insurgent by Veronica Roth

Chaos Walking books by Patrick Ness

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

Unraveling by Elizabeth Norris

Legend by Marie Lu

The Maze Runner books by James Dashner

Delirium by Lauren Oliver

TV Show:

Supernatural (If you're a big Dean fan, you'll LOVE this story)

Movie:

Mission Impossible II

I started working on this a few months ago and I'm only about 18 chapters into this so far.

I've titled it _Coalesce _which means: to blend or come together: Their ideas coalesced into one theory.

Summary:

Many, many years ago, war destroyed America. After the obliteration of the country and peace was made, the fifteen strongest cities rose from the ashes to rebuild themselves. They became known as Sectors, with the wealthy and most influential citizens and those with perfect genes were granted automatic citizenship. All children who lived in the outlying cities were required to take a test known as a Trial when they turned the age of twelve, and if you passed, you were granted permission to live inside the Sector. This is the same for every Sector in what's left of America.

The Trial is scored out of 1500 points. If you scored between 1450 and 1499 you're automatically granted citizenship and instant access to eight years of high school and four years at the top universities of your choice, or—you could choose to enroll in Mission Headquarters to train to be an agent for Special Ops when you turn seventeen.

You get a good score, somewhere between 1250 and 1449 points, you get to continue on to high school, and then you're assigned to a university just outside of the Sector. If you graduate with good grades, you have a chance of making a life inside the Sector. Not bad.

You squeak by with a score between 1000 and 1249. Congress bars you from high school and you join the poor. You'll probably either drown while working the water turbines or get steamed to death in the power plants. There's always the chance of starving to death as well. You fail.

So the story follows a girl named Evelyn and a boy named Sam as they train with Special Ops to become Agents. You'll learn more about the story as you read it. It's a lot better than it sounds—I promise. I'll upload the first two chapter to sort of get the story going and then update again based on if people like it.

So let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive criticism is always welcome! With all that said, here is the first chapter!

* * *

MY BACK ACHES. I've been sitting in this damn chair for close to an hour now. It's the third time this week I've sat in this chair, in this office. Third time this week my back has ached from waiting. I'm here to see Coulson yet _again_ for something I did wrong. Although this time I didn't do anything wrong. Anything I can recall in recent time, anyways. Maybe they're just now finding out about something I never got caught for. I look to my right and out the frosted glass door to see some of my fellow trainees hanging around. I smirk at them and turn my attention to Ms. Rickart—Coulson's secretary.

She must feel my eyeing her because she looks up and says, "I'm sorry, Ms. Carter, but you're going to have to be a little more patient. Coulson is speaking to the new transfer who will be joining us."

I raise my eyebrows. This is news to me. It's rare for anyone to transfer to another Sector. I can't think of any reason why someone would _want_ to transfer to Sector 4. After all, there are much more desirable Sectors out there. Fourteen others to be specific. Sector 4 definitely isn't the worse, being located in Portland, Oregon, but it's also not the best. Curiosity gets the best of me.

"Who transferred?" I ask.

"I don't know all the details, Ms. Carter," she says. Then her phone rings and she picks it up.

I sit in my chair and contemplate this. I'm very interested in whoever this transfer is. Why here? Why transfer at all? Not only is it rare to transfer to another Sector, but it isn't technically allowed, either. Only certain exceptions are permitted. I get so caught up in my thoughts that I almost don't hear my name being called. I look up.

"Coulson will see you now," Ms. Rickart says.

"Awesome," I mutter.

I get up, stretch my arms, and walk forward. I don't even bother knocking on the door—I just walk right in. Sitting in one of the two chairs in front of Coulson's desk is a boy. I close the door behind me and the boy turns his head around. I glance at him briefly and then look to Coulson. He gestures for me to sit down and so I do, taking the seat next to the boy.

"So, what did I do this time?" I ask.

"For once, nothing," says Coulson. "I've brought you here because we have a transfer from another Sector."

I nod, not sure where he's going with this. As if reading my thoughts he says, "I expect you to show him around. Make him feel at home. Introduce him to some people. This—"

"Why me?" I ask, holding up a hand.

He ignores me and keeps talking. "—is Sam. He's transferring from Sector Seven and will be in your training class."

I look over to the boy known as Sam. He reaches out a hand. "Nice to meet you," he says. I shake his hand. It's warm.

"Evelyn," I say.

"I've already given Sam his schedule and a map of the place. Now all he needs is a guide and someone to tell him how things work around here. Off you two go," Coulson says.

I get out of my seat and head toward the door. I'm not very happy about being this guy's guide, but I'm too interested in why he's come here to really be bothered by it. We walk past Ms. Rickart's desk and out the door into the foyer. My classmates have disappeared—probably gone to their dorms.

"Can I see your schedule?" I ask. He hands it over to me. I glance over which classes he has and take note that they're the same as mine.

"Looks like we have the same classes," I say and hold out his schedule. He takes it and shoves it in his pocket.

This is the first time I've really looked at him. His hair is cut close to his scalp, so it's hard to tell whether it's light brown or dark blonde. His eyes are a darkish green color and he's about average height for a boy. He's lean and fit and actually quite handsome. I feel like I've been staring too long but he's just staring back at me. I feel at a loss for words and ask the first thing that comes to mind.

"So, you're from Chicago," I say. Chicago, Illinois is where Sector 7 is located. He nods his head. "Why Portland?"

"Too much wind," he says.

"It does nothing but rain here," I say.

He smiles and says, "So I've heard." I give him a half smile and then turn to my left. Hall number four stretches out in front of us with four doors on both sides. The classrooms for our training class. I jerk my head towards the hall and start walking. Sam follows and falls into stride next to me.

"Room number one is where we learn knife throwing and room number two is gun training. Room three, combat room; four, special tactics. The other four is where you learn strategies, computers, how to make and diffuse bombs, and espionage," I tell him while we walk down the hall. At the end of the hall is a set of double doors which lead into the cafeteria.

Sam doesn't say a word the whole time I show him around. We round a corner so I can show him where the lockers are located. A group of two boys are standing around a girl. Not just any girl, but Emilee, and they're taunting her. I sigh.

"Who's that?" Sam asks.

"The girl is Emilee. The boys are Eric and Marcus," I say.

"Why are they picking on her?" he asks.

"Because Emilee is the youngest of us. She's really too soft to be training for Special Ops but she tries hard," I say.

"What does she have to prove?" he asks.

I shrug. "Just wants to fit in, I guess. Let's move on."

Sam glances back at Emilee but then follows me. I don't intervene because I know Emilee wouldn't want me to. Besides, she _is _tougher than she looks.

We pass the lockers that no one actually uses and come to a stop at a stair case. Up two flights of stairs are the dorms. Everyone who is enrolled at Mission Headquarters lives on campus. The rooms are complete with a kitchen, bathroom, living area, dining area, and two bedrooms. Quite spacious really.

"What room are you?" I say.

"404," he says.

We head up the stairs and come to the top of a hallway. I lead him to his room and stop in front of his door.

"This is your room," I say. "Did Coulson give you a key?"

"Yes," he says. He digs in his pocket and pulls out a brass key. I take it from him and unlock his door. It's dark and empty inside. I look for the light switches and turn them on. Well, not completely empty. A couch sits against one wall and a chair on the other. There's a table and some chairs in the dining area and I assume there will be a bed in at least one of the bedrooms.

I turn to him and say, "Welcome to Sector Four."

He gives me a curt nod and steps into his new home. He looks around and then back at me.

"Do you have any questions?" I ask him.

"Not at the moment," he says.

"Well, if you need anything I'm three doors down in 407," I tell him.

"Okay," is all he says.

"Okay," I say and turn around. I leave his key on a small shelf and shut his door and make my way to my own room.

I dig my key out of my pocket and unlock the door. I'm greeted instantly by a small _woof_. "Hey Cas," I say while patting him on the head. I close the door and plop down on the couch. Cas trots over and sits next to me on the floor with his tail wagging.

The walls are bare and I've never accumulated much furniture. Just a couch and a coffee table with a TV in the corner. I don't spend much time in my dorm, so what's the point in decorating it? I'll only be living here for a few months. Soon I'll graduate from Mission Headquarters and given a government job—depending on how well I do in training, that is.

I've just closed my eyes when there's a knock on the door. Cas stands up and faces that direction. I sigh and push myself up, taking my time walking to the door with Cas right behind me. I twist the knob and the door opens.

"Um, hi," Sam says.

"Hi," I say back.

"I thought of a question," he says."Is there a curfew?"

"It's midnight." _Random question,_ I think.

He nods his head and says, "Thanks," and is just about to turn away when Cas decides to check him out.

"Cas, back inside," I say. But he just ignores me and continues to sniff Sam.

"I love German Shepherds," he says.

"Me too," I say.

Sam crouches down and rubs Cas's ears. I watch him. He's quiet and gentle but definitely not the vulnerable type. There's something sincere about him. And he's caught me staring at him again.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing," I say quickly and call Cas to come back inside. This time he obeys me. "Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you," he says and walks back to his room.

I shut the door and head into the kitchen. I'm starving. Of course, there's no food in my fridge. I was suppose to go grocery shopping after classes ended. Oh well. I feed Cas and head into my bedroom to change. I trade my standard training clothes—a black T-shirt, brown cargo pants tucked into leather boots—for something a little more comfortable. I head into the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. I can faintly see the dark circles forming under my eyes and I sigh. I need more sleep.

I pull my dark, wavy hair out of its pony tail and let it fall down around my shoulders. I have my mother's eyes, which are a blue-green color. They're all I really have left of her.

I splash some water on my face and turn off the light. I take a seat on the couch and look around. I eye the TV remote and decide to watch some TV. I flip through the channels but as usual, nothing good is on. I stop when I get to the news station. A reporter is talking about the mysterious disease outbreak that's been going around. At first we just assumed it was a new string of the flu disease, but it's gone on to be much more lethal. Three more people have died today and we have yet to figure out what the disease is. That makes ninety-eight people dead in Portland alone in just ninety days. One of those victims was my brother. So far, Portland has been hit the hardest, the other Sectors a little luckier.

Perplexed, I turn off the TV and sit up. This strange disease—which for now has been nicknamed the plaque—has our doctors and scientists stumped on finding an antidote. It's claimed more lives than in the time it's been around. _What could it be? _I think. Something about the disease is peculiar to me.

I lay my head down on the couch and close my eyes. I hear a whine and open them. Cas lays his head down next to me; always looking out for me. I scratch him between the ears and close my eyes again.

Tomorrow is gun training. I can't help but think of Sam. Sector 7 is one of the five Sectors which actually train agents. I wonder how good he was back in his old home. _I guess we'll find out tomorrow, _I think.

I let the darkness take me, and slip into another night of a dreamless sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

"THE FIRST THING we will do today is shooting practice. The second thing is how to win a fight." Jameson—our hot headed instructor—is pacing in front of us. He's tall, with greasy brown hair and a face full of piercings. He repulses me.

We learned how to shoot last week but this is our first time back in the shooting range. He presses a gun into the palm of my hand without looking at me and keeps walking. "Thankfully, you remember how to handle a gun and should always assume that it is loaded unless you are absolutely sure. Keep the end with the hole in it pointed at the ground. Always," he says.

I feel more awake than I have in days. It probably has something to do with the gun in my hand but I relish the feeling. I look to my side. Sam is exactly four people to my right. For some reason, I find myself distracted by him. I turn my attention back to Jameson.

"Training is evaluated in three aspects. We will measure your progress and rank you according to your performance in each one. They are not weighed equally in determining your final rank, so it is possible, though difficult, to drastically improve your rank over time," he reminds us. Probably has something to do with the new trainee.

I stare at the weapon in my hand. It feels dangerous and powerful, as if just by touching it, I could hurt someone.

"We believe that preparation eradicates cowardice, which we define as the failure to act in the midst of fear," says Jameson. "Therefore each aspect of training is intended to prepare you in a different way. You will be evaluated on your physical ability to act, your intelligence, and mental preparedness."

I hear Emilee take a deep breath. Her blonde hair is pulled into a messy pony tail. Last time we were in here, not a single bullet of hers hit the target. She looks tense and nervous.

"You are far less likely to soil your pants and cry for your mother if you're prepared to defend yourself." Jameson stops walking at the end of the row and turns on his heal. "This is also information you may need later training. So, watch me."

He faces the wall with the targets on it—one square of plywood with three red circles on it for each of us. He stands with his feet apart, holds the gun in both hands, and fires. The bang is loud and it hurts my ears. I crane my neck to look at the target. The bullet went through the middle circle.

I turn to my own target. I set my feet shoulder-width apart, and delicately wrap both hands around the handle of the gun. I breathe in through my nose and exhale out my mouth while squeezing the trigger. The recoil causes my hands to come back a bit but I was expecting that. My bullet goes straight through the middle target; a perfect bulls-eye, and I smile. I was surprisingly good at this last time and it looks like I haven't lost my edge.

I fire again and again, each bullet hitting somewhere on the center target. I rush of energy goes through me. I am awake, my eyes wide open, my hands warm. I lower the gun. There is power in controlling something that can do so much damage—in controlling something, period. I belong here.

I look around at the other trainees. Emilee has managed to put a hole in far side of her target and I smile. I look around at the others. Most are still having difficulty at shooting their targets. When my eyes come to Sam, I see him lower his arms and a look of approval shadows his face. I look to his target. He has a perfect bulls-eye, just like I do.

"Well done, Carter," Jameson says. I glance at him briefly and then turn my attention back to Sam. He's shooting again, and each bullet is hitting its target. I have to admit it—I'm definitely impressed. He's the only one who's been able to match my skill level in this class.

By the time we break for lunch, my arms are sore from holding up the gun and my fingers are stiff. I massage them on my way to the dining hall. Emilee walks with me along with a few other trainees whom we've made friends with.

Hal, a boy with olive skin and dark hair, sits across from me with a girl named Lauren. To my left, Emilee absently chews on some of her food. She must be thinking about the shooting.

"I saw you hit the target today," I say.

"Yeah, I guess so," she shrugs. I can tell something is bothering her, but I decide to ask about it later. When we're alone.

"Can I sit here?" asks Teresa, tapping the table. She has mousy brown hair and brown eyes. I've talked to her a few times. She seems nice. I nod my head at her and she takes her seat next to Hal.

I quickly glance around the room and see Sam enter the cafeteria. It dawns on me that he doesn't know anyone besides me, so when he makes eye contact with me I wave him over. He makes his way over to us, a plate of food in one hand. I pat the seat next to me and he sits down. I formally introduce him to everybody.

I gesture to my left, "This is Emilee," and then to everybody else, "and that's Hal, Lauren, and Teresa."

"Sam," he says. They all exchange a hello with him.

The next couple minutes we sit in an awkward silence, but soon, Hal and Lauren are already excusing themselves and leave, arguing with each other. Teresa scoots across the table so she sits across from Emilee and the two start a conversation. I steel a glance at Sam. He's picking at his peas. For some reason, I find myself wanting to know more about this boy.

"You're a good shot," I tell him.

"So are you," he says.

I feel myself blushing and look away, back at my own plate. _Was he watching me? _I think. We sit in silence for a while and then he asks, "You're good at this, aren't you?"

I look up at him. "What do you mean?"

He gestures to nothing in particular. "I can just see it in you," he says. "You're skillful and capable, a natural."

"I have the same feeling about you," I say, unaware of when I came to that conclusion. I haven't even known him for twenty-four hours, yet.

He's about to reply when Marcus and Eric—the two boys who were taunting Emilee the day before—come over and sit around us. Emilee and Teresa quickly get up and leave, leaving Sam and I alone with them. _Thanks guys,_ I think.

Marcus sits on the left side of me and Eric to the right of Sam. Eric grabs Sam's plate of food and starts eating it; challenging him to do something about it. But Sam just folds his hands in his lap.

"So, you're the new guy," says Marcus. "The guy who transferred all the way from Sector Seven." Sam stays quiet, which just makes Marcus smile. He shoves my shoulder which causes me to bump into Sam, who tenses beside me.

Marcus reaches for my own plate of food but I grab hold of it, stopping him from eating it because I'm not done eating and my stomach is still growling. He shoves me again, and I shove him back harder. This just makes him angry.

He stands up and is about to grab me by the collar of my shirt but before he can, Sam is already on his feet; shoving Marcus away from me.

"You've got something you would like to say?" sneers Marcus.

They stare at each other, neither of them looking away. Marcus isn't a dog, but the same rules apply. Looking away is submissive. Looking him in the eye is a challenge. What will happen when this tension breaks? Marcus is at least a half a foot taller than Sam and twice his size.

But Marcus just smirks and jerks his head at Eric, who gets up and follows him. I release a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"I didn't need you to defend me," I say quietly, after they've left.

"Undoubtedly," he replies. I don't hear any sarcasm attached to it.

"Then why'd you do it?" I say.

"I can't stand a bully," he says. "To me, that is the sheer definition of cowardice." I find myself agreeing with him.

An awkward silence ensues and I am myself desperate for it to end. I'm shuffling my feet and looking at nothing in particular. Sam is the first to speak.

"I better go," he says.

"Okay," I say, but he's already walking out the cafeteria doors.

After lunch, Jameson leads us to the combat room. It's huge, with a wood floor that is cracked and creaky and has a large circle painted in the middle. On the left wall is a green board—a chalkboard.

Our names are written on the board in alphabetical order. Hanging at three-foot intervals along one wall of the room are faded black punching bags.

We line up behind them and Jameson stands in the middle, where we can all see him.

"As I said this morning," says Jameson, "next you will learn how to fight. The purpose of this is to prepare you to act; to prepare your body to respond to threats and challenges—which you will need, if you intend to survive life as an agent."

"We will go over technique today, and tomorrow you will start to fight each other," says Jameson. "So I recommend that you pay attention. Those who don't learn fast will get hurt."

Jameson names a few different punches, demonstrating each one as he does, first against the air and then against the punching bag.

I remember what my brother once taught me. The kicks are more difficult and Jameson only teaches us the basics. The punching bag stings under my hands and feet, turning my skin red. It swings with the force of my punches and kicks. All around me is the sound of skin hitting tough fabric.

When Jameson dismisses us for the day, Emilee nudges me with her elbow.

"You make it look so easy," she says. She wrinkles her nose. "I'm never going to be good at this."

"Hey, that's no way to be thinking," I tell her. "Just give it time."

Hal, who was in front of us, turns around once we reach the foyer and announces, "I want to get a tattoo."

From behind us, Lauren asks, "A tattoo of what?"

"I don't know." Hal laughs. "Something cool!"

"I want one too," Teresa says.

Now that training is done for the day, we can do whatever we want until it's time for curfew. I look around for Sam to invite him with us, but I don't see him anywhere. We ride the MAX train to a place called Pioneer Square. It's swarming with people. Lauren announces that she, Emilee, and I will meet Hal and Teresa at the tattoo parlor and drags us to the clothing place. We stumble around people, climbing the brick steps that line the Square. I glance at Emilee and figure I should help spice up her image a bit.

"What's wrong with my clothes?" Emilee asks.

"They're ugly and gigantic," I sigh. "Will you just let me help you? If you don't like what I put you in, you never have to wear it again, I promise." Lauren giggles and bounds off in search of something to try on.

Ten minutes later Emilee stands in front of a mirror near the changing rooms wearing a knee-length black dress. The skirt isn't full, but it isn't stuck to her thighs, either—unlike the first one I picked out, which she refused. Goose bumps appear on her bare arms. I slip the tie from her hair and she shakes it out so it hangs over her shoulders.

Then I hold up a black pencil.

"Eyeliner," I say.

"You aren't going to be able to make me pretty, you know." She closes her eyes and holds still. I run the tip of the pencil along the line of her eyelashes.

"Who cares about pretty? I'm going for noticeable," I tell her.

She opens her eyes for the first time and stares openly at her reflection. Her eyes were blue before, but a dull, grayish blue—the eyeliner makes them piercing. With her hair framing her face, her features look softer and fuller. Definitely noticeable.

"See?" I say. "You're . . . striking." She smiles at me in the mirror. "You like it?" I ask.

"Yeah," she nods. "I look like . . . a different person."

I laugh. "That a good thing or a bad thing?"

"A good thing."

"Come on," I say. "Let's go watch Hal get tattooed."

Once Lauren in done paying for her own clothes, the three of us race down the street to the tattoo place inside Pioneer Palace. When we get there, Hal is sitting in a chair already with Teresa watching from behind, and a small, narrow man with more ink than bare skin is drawing a spider on Hal's arm.

Emilee and Lauren flip through the books of pictures, elbowing each other when they find a good one. When they sit next to each other, I notice how opposite they are, Lauren dark and broad, Emilee pale and petite, but they both have their easy smiles.

I wander around the room, looking at the artwork on the walls. I come across a sketch of a bird in flight.

"It's a raven," a voice behind me says. "Pretty right?"

I turn to see a slender woman with black hair standing behind me. I immediately recognize her as Lynn, the woman who administered my Trial five years ago.

"Well, hello there." She smiles. "Never thought I would see you again, Evelyn."

"Do you work here?" I ask.

"I do. Most of the time, anyways." She says, tapping her chin. I touch the sketch of the bird. "Want a tattoo?"

The bird sketch holds my attention. I remember asking about one of her own tattoos a long time ago and how she said it represented a fear she overcame—a reminder of who she was, as well as a reminder of where she is now. Maybe there can be a way for me to honor my old life as I embrace my new one.

"Yes," I say. "Three of these flying birds."

I touch my collarbone, marking the path of their flight—toward my heart. Two for my mother and father who I left behind all those years ago, and another for the brother who left me too soon.


	3. Chapter 3

"SINCE THERE ARE an odd number of you, one of you won't be fighting today," says Jameson, stepping away from the board in the training room. He gives Emilee a look. The space next to her name is blank. I hear her give a sigh of relief. Everybody in this room is taller, bigger, or just more menacing than she is.

I search for my name and see that I'm up against Marlene. She's tall, broad shouldered, has bronze skin, and a bulbous nose. She usually hangs out with Marcus and Eric.

Hal and Lauren stand across from each other in the arena. They put their hands up by their faces to protect themselves, as Jameson taught us, and shuffle in a circle around each other. Hal is a half a foot taller than Lauren, and twice as broad. I realize this fight won't last long.

I glance at Marlene and her friends. Eric is shorter than both Marcus and Marlene, but he's built like a boulder, and his shoulders are always hunched. His hair is orange-red, the color of an old carrot.

Marcus is pure evil. I hear stories of when he was a kid, he would pick fights with people and then, when an adult came to break it up, he'd cry and make up some story about how the other kid started it. Eric is just his sidekick. I doubt he has an independent thought in his brain. And Marlene…she's the kind of person who fries ants with a magnifying glass just to watch them flail around.

I glance around for Sam and see him standing a ways to my right, just behind Eric, Marcus, and Marlene, watching the fight. He's up against Eric today. I've never seen Sam fight and I wonder how good he is. He turns his head towards me and catches my eye. I quickly look away. _Focus,_ I think.

In the arena, Hal punches Lauren hard in the jaw. I wince. Across the room, Jameson smirks at Hal, and turns one of the rings in his eyebrow.

Lauren stumbles to her side, one hand pressed to her face, and blocks Hal's next punch with her free hand. Judging by her grimace, blocking the punch is as painful as a blow would have been. Hal is slow, but powerful.

Marcus, Eric, and Marlene cast furtive looks in my direction and then pull their heads together, whispering. Sam must hear what they're saying because his eyebrows pull together into a scowl and he clenches his fists. Whatever they're saying doesn't bother me. They've had it out for me since day one; since I outshone them in gun training. I fake a smile at them and wave. They just glare at me.

I laugh to myself a little and focus on the arena again. Lauren and Hal face each other for a few more seconds, more hesitant than they were before. Lauren flicks her dark hair from her eyes. They glance at Jameson like they're waiting for him to call the fight off, but he stands with his arms folded, giving no response.

After a few seconds of circling, Jameson shouts, "Do you think this is a leisure activity? Should we break for naptime? Fight each other!"

"But . . . " Hal straightens, letting his hands down, and says, "Is it scored or something? When does the fight end?"

"It ends when one of you is unable to continue," says Jameson. I don't see why one of them couldn't concede. A brave man acknowledges the strength of others. Although, one might also argue that a brave man never surrenders.

Beads of sweat dot Hal's forehead; he wipes them with the back of his hand.

"This is ridiculous," Hal says, shaking his head. "What the point of beating her up? We're in the same training class!"

"Oh, you think it's going to be that easy?" Lauren asks, grinning. "Go on. Try to hit me, slowpoke."

Lauren puts her hands up again. I see determination in Lauren's eyes that wasn't there before. Does she really believe she can win? One hard shot to the head and Hal will knock her out cold.

That is, if he can actually hit Lauren. Hal tries a punch, and Lauren ducks, the back of her neck shining with sweat. She dodges another punch, slipping around Hal and kicking him hard in the back. Hal lurches forward and turns.

When I was younger, I read a book about grizzly bears. There was a picture of one standing on its hind legs with its paws outstretched, roaring. That is how Hal looks now. He charges Lauren, grabbing her arm so she can't slip away, and punches her hard in the jaw.

I watch the light leave Lauren's eyes, which are dark brown—like chocolate. They roll back into her head, and all the tension falls from her body. She slips from Hal's grasp, dead weight, and crumples to the floor.

Hal's eyes widen, and he crouches down next to Lauren, tapping her cheek with one hand. The room falls silent as we wait for Lauren to respond. For a few seconds, she doesn't. Just lies on the ground with an arm bent underneath her. Then she blinks, clearly dazed.

"Get her up," Jameson says. He turns to the chalkboard and circles Hal's name. Victory.

"Next up—Eric and Sam!" shouts Jameson. Hal pulls Lauren's arm across his shoulders and drags her out of the arena.

Eric cracks his knuckles. I know he is a good fighter. Sam isn't weak, but he's leaner than Eric. I'm hoping his wits will help him. Maybe Eric being dim-witted is a good thing.

Across the room, Hal supports Lauren from the waist and leads her out. Jameson stands by the door, watching them go.

Sam doesn't look nervous, and neither does Eric. They're both strangers to the other, so how would they know each other's strengths and weaknesses? Who will win this fight? Will Sam be Hal, standing over Eric's body, or will he be Lauren, lying in a helpless heap?

I snap to attention when Eric kicks Sam in the side. Sam gasps, and grits his teeth. Hal is back and is standing next to me, but I'm too focused on the new fight to look at him, or congratulate him on winning, assuming that's what he wants. I am not sure.

Sam smirks at Eric, and without warning, dives, hands outstretched, at Eric's midsection. He hits him hard, knocking him down, and pins him to the ground. Eric thrashes, but Sam has a firm grip and doesn't budge.

He punches, and Eric moves his head out of the way, but Sam just punches again, and again, until his fist hits Eric's jaw, his nose, his mouth. I clench and unclench my fists. Blood runs down the side of Eric's face and splatters on the ground next to his cheek.

Eric shouts out and drags one of his arms free. He punches Sam in the ear, knocking him off-balance, and wriggles free. He comes to his knees, holding his face with one hand. The blood streaming from his nose is thick and dark and covers his fingers in seconds. He shouts again and crawls away from Sam.

Sam kicks Eric's side, sending him sprawling on his back. Eric clutches his rib cage. "Stop!" shouts Eric as Sam pulls his foot back to kick again. He holds out a hand. "Stop! I'm . . . ." he coughs. "I'm done."

Sam drops his foot and puts his arms by his side, breathing heavily. Eric pushes himself to his knees. When he takes his hand from the ground, it leaves a red handprint behind. He pinches his nose to stop the bleeding. He stumbles; he looks dizzy.

Jameson leads him to the door and sends him to the infirmary and then walks to the chalkboard and circles Sam's name. He still stands in the middle of the arena, his breaths getting slower and slower. He almost looks upset. He snaps out of whatever daze he was in and makes his way towards the rest of us.

Sam wasn't just good, he was relentless. He's proven to be one not to overlook, and I fear that this just makes him more of an enemy to Marcus.

"Up next—Evelyn and Marlene!" shouts Jameson.

Jameson told us yesterday to exploit our opponent's weaknesses, and aside from her utter lack of likable qualities, Marlene doesn't have any. She's tall enough to be strong but not so big that she's slow; she has an eye for other people's soft spots; she's vicious and won't show me any mercy. I'm glad to think that I don't have many soft spots. She probably underestimates me.

I walk to the center of the arena and I clench my fists as Marlene comes toward me. She smiles at me. A crooked, evil smile.

"You ready for me to kick your ass?" she sneers.

I just roll my eyes. She definitely underestimates me. Over Marlene's shoulder, I see Sam standing by the door with his arms folded. I can see a bruise beginning to form on the side of his head.

One second Marlene and I are standing there, staring at each other, and the next Marlene's hands are up by her face, her elbows bent. Her knees are bent too, like she's ready to spring.

"Come on," she says, her eyes glinting. "Hit me with your best shot."

I kick her in the side. Or I would have kicked her in the side, if she hadn't caught my foot and yanked it forward, knocking me off-balance. My back smacks into the floor, and I pull my foot free, scrambling to my feet.

I have to stay on my feet so she can't kick me in the head. That's the only thing I can think about.

"Stop playing around, I don't have all day!" snaps Jameson.

Marlene's mischievous look disappears. My arm twitches and I punch her square in the jaw. She stumbles to the side. I dart in front of her and kick her hard in the stomach. She gasps and grits her teeth. I block a punch with my arm but leave my stomach unprotected. She swings her leg and kicks me in the gut. Her foot forces the air from my lungs and it hurts, hurts so badly I can't breathe. I fall.

_On your feet_ is the only thought in my mind. I push myself up, barely dodging Marlene's attempt at tackling me. She grabs my hair with one hand and swings her fist forward. I jerk my head to the side and sweep my legs forward, knocking her off her feet. She crashes to the floor. I pull my arm back and punch her in the nose. She tries to shove me off, her hands slapping at my arms, and I punch her again, this time in the ribs. She catches me in the nose and I can feel blood trickling from it.

She manages to shove me off and I fall, scraping my hands on the ground. I cough and drag myself to my feet. Something hits me from the side and I almost fall over again.

_On my feet on my feet. _I see Marlene in front of me and I punch as hard as I can. My fist connects with her face and she stumbles backwards. I swing my leg forward and kick her in the ribs again. Her knees give out and she falls to the floor. I kick her again and she screams.

I step backwards and look at her. Blood streams from her nose and mouth and one of her eyes are already swelling. She clutches her side and is breathing heavily. I'm not going to kick her anymore now that she's unable to continue. I look over to Jameson who nods his head and circles my name on the board. I've won.

I wipe the blood from my own nose, my hand smeared with the red stuff. I make my way over to the other trainees and plop down in a chair. Jameson helps Marlene get up and then sends her to the infirmary. I should feel happy about my victory, but it feels strange to inflict pain on someone. No matter how much you dislike them or they deserve it.

The rest of the fights go by in a blur. I see that Teresa lost to a boy named Caleb; and Marcus won his fight against a boy named Eden. Jameson dismisses us for the day and I head to my dorm, exhausted.

We file out of the combat room quickly, each of us going our separate ways. Emilee sticks with me to make sure I'm okay and then takes off with Teresa. I trudge down the hallway towards the dorms; dragging my feet behind me. My fight with Marlene has exhausted me and I want nothing more than to lie down and take a nap.

I climb the stairs, wincing as I go. My head hurts and my stomach aches and my eyes feel droopy.

I reach my door and dig around for my key. A red dot splashes onto my hand. I wipe my nose with the back of it and it comes back with red smears. My nose is bleeding again. I pull my key out and shakily try to unlock my door. I somehow manage to drop the key so I bend down to pick it up and that's when I notice the other set of feet. I look up to see Sam standing above me. He looks concerned.

"Are you okay?" he asks while I get to my feet.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I say.

"You're bleeding," he says.

"Marlene managed to sock me pretty good." I wipe my nose again.

He grabs the key from my hand and unlocks the door. He helps me inside and sits me down on the couch. Cas licks my hand and gives a small whine. I pat him on the head and tell him, "Good boy."

I hear water running from the sink in the kitchen and look to see Sam wetting a small towel. He turns off the water and wrings out the towel and crosses the room to me and takes a seat.

"For your nose," he says and gently dabs at the drying blood on my face. I let him do it. Something flutters in my chest.

It's hard to believe that this is the same boy who just beat Eric to a bloody pulp. That he is capable of inflicting such harm. He generally seems so gentle and kind. I look at his face while he wipes my nose. A noticeable bruise stands out on the side of his head, right where Eric punched him. I look into his eyes. They're unmistakably green. Not bright, more of an olive green. Pretty.

Sam removes the towel and sets it on the coffee table. He looks just as exhausted as I feel. I decide that if I want to learn more about this mysterious boy that now would be the time.

"Where did you learn to fight? Was it back in Chicago?" I say.

He glances at me and then back to the wall in front of us. He looks he wants to say something, but is deciding if he should or not. Finally he says, "Does it matter?"

I shrug. "Well, whoever it was must have been very good," I say, "because you were quite intimidating out there."

"Yeah well . . . you should have heard the stuff they were saying about you," he says.

I remember Sam standing behind them as they whispered to each other. I remember the scowl he wore and his clenched fists. Why would he care what they say about me?

"Why do you care what they say about me?" I ask, echoing my thoughts.

"They shouldn't be talking like that about _anybody_ he says. Whether that be you, or Emilee, or whoever else they don't like. You intimidate them, so they fight back the only way they can—with words," he says.

"Think they learned their lesson?" I say.

Sam thinks about this for a moment and then says, "No." I know what he means. Perhaps all we did was make them angrier. Make them feel like they have to push our buttons even harder. We showed them up. We're a threat to them.

"They're going to be more determined than they were before," I say.

Sam nods his head. Then he turns to look at me. "What about you?" he says.

"What about me?"

"Your fight with Marlene. You obviously didn't learn all that from our lesson with Jameson yesterday. So where did _you_ learn to fight like that?" he says.

I stay silent for a few moments. I haven't thought about my brother much. Not since he died from the strange plaque disease.

"My brother," I finally say.

Some emotion quickly crosses Sam's face. There and gone before I could figure out what it was. He doesn't ask any further questions. Instead, he grabs the towel that is now stained with my blood and washes it in the kitchen sink. I walk over to him, Cas right on my heels.

"Thank you," I say. "For helping me."

"Anytime," he smiles.

We stand there awkwardly for a few moments. I purse my lips and look around the room. Sam scratches the back of his head.

"Well, I guess I'll be going then," he says and makes his way toward the door. I suddenly realize that I don't want him to leave.

"Have you seen the Rose Gardens, yet?" I call after him. He turns to look at me with his hand on the door knob. He shakes his head. I smile. "Would you like to see it?"

"Why not," he says.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **

**I wanted to try and incorporate some of Portland's landmarks into my story. I've always thought it would be an interesting setting location for a book. The plot line for the story that I put in the Author's Note chapter is in here, but there's some extra detail that I didn't include before. Hope you enjoy! **

* * *

WE STAND AMONG a large crowd of people at Pioneer Square; waiting for the next MAX train to come rolling in. Autumn in Oregon is usually full of rain and cloudy weather, but today the sun is shining and there isn't a cloud in the sky. The temperature has even reached seventy-four degrees Fahrenheit. Sam stares around the Square, absorbing every detail he can. As far as I know, this is his first time in downtown Portland.

A MAX train comes humming down the tracks and I check to make sure it will take us to Washington Park Station. Luckily it does, and we won't have to wait another ten or so minutes for the next train. It takes us a while to find two open seats but eventually we do.

"So, what's so amazing about these rose gardens?" Sam asks.

"Well, they're . . . incredible. Peninsula Park has around nine-thousand roses of sixty varieties. The view is absolutely breathtaking. On a day like this you can see Mt. Hood clear as a bell," I say.

"Sounds like this city has a lot to offer," he says.

"Apart from the rain nine months out of the year, it's actually quite an amazing city. The rain keeps everything green and alive."

"How long have you lived here?" he asks.

"In Portland? Five years. I grew up in a city just outside of Portland, called Hillsboro," I say.

"What's Hillsboro like?" he asks. I haven't been to my home town since I went to take my Trial, but I imagine it looks the same. Not many people live there anymore; just under three thousand. Any city that lies outside of a Sector is poverty stricken.

Many, many years ago, war destroyed America. After the obliteration of the country and peace was made, the fifteen strongest cities rose from the ashes to rebuild themselves. They became known as Sectors, with the wealthy and most influential citizens and those with perfect genes were granted automatic citizenship. All children who lived in the outlying cities were required to take a test known as a Trial when they turned the age of twelve, and if you passed, you were granted permission to live inside the Sector. This is the same for every Sector in what's left of America.

My brother was a year older than me, so he took his Trail before me.

The Trial is scored out of 1500 points. If you scored between 1450 and 1499 you're automatically granted citizenship and instant access to eight years of high school and four years at the top universities of your choice, or—you could choose to enroll in Mission Headquarters to train to be an agent for Special Ops when you turn seventeen like me and my brother did.

You get a good score, somewhere between 1250 and 1449 points, you get to continue on to high school, and then you're assigned to a university just outside of the Sector. If you graduate with good grades, you have a chance of making a life inside the Sector. Not bad.

You squeak by with a score between 1000 and 1249. Congress bars you from high school and you join the poor. You'll probably either drown while working the water turbines or get steamed to death in the power plants. There's always the chance of starving to death as well. You fail.

I myself passed with a score of 1484. Nobody has ever gotten a perfect 1500. Not that I am aware of, anyways. My own brother pulled a 1490. He was always very intelligent.

"Looks how any city outside of a Sector looks like—dirty and poor," I say.

"Right," Sam says. We enter a long tunnel and the car goes dark except for the tiny lights on the ceiling. After a while, we pull into an underground station right under Washington Park and we hop off. We step into an elevator and push the button that will take us two-hundred and forty-three feet above ground. This area use to be a zoo, but no animals has lived her since the war.

"To get to the gardens we'll need to catch bus 63, which only comes by once every hour," I say.

"It's 6:59 now," Sam says.

"Great, it should be here any minute then." I glance around and see the bus making its way toward us. "Ready to see those gardens?" I say.

The bus ride doesn't take long, and soon we're already climbing off and standing beneath the entrance to the gardens.

"There are three gardens we can look at. And today, we're going to see the Peninsula Park," I say.

Sam just nods and follows me. "Older, but not as well known, the Peninsula Park was Portland's first public rose garden," I explain. We step in the sunken rose garden, walking on a lush path with sweeping archways. "Two acres packed with nearly nine-thousand traditional rose plantings. In the center of the park lies the octagonal bandstand. It was constructed in 1913 and was used for World War I patriotic demonstrations. Now it is the site for many weddings and concerts. The fountain in the center of the garden is over two-hundred years old."

We make our way up the brick steps and stand directly underneath the bandstand. At the other end of the field is the city's oldest community center which includes an open air pool in the back. All around us roses are in full bloom in a magnificent array of colors. Scientists were able to create a special chemical which allowed the roses to bloom year-round. That way, no matter when you come, there will always be roses to see.

"This is beautiful," breathes Sam.

"My brother use to take me here. When we first moved here," I tell him.

We wander around the park some more, stopping momentarily to smell and admire the roses. The gardens are vast and lush.

Sam is reading some pamphlet we picked up near the entrance of the park. In front of us stretches a perfect view of Mt. Hood in the cloudless sky. Snow still covers the mountain.

"Did you know," says Sam, "that white roses stand for innocence but can also mean secrecy and silence?"

"And yellow roses express friendship," I say, quoting from the pamphlet he reads.

"Pink represents appreciation and loyalty," he says.

"Dark crimson are given as a symbol of mourning."

"And red roses symbolize love, respect, courage, and desire."

"And a rose without thorns conveys love at first sight," I finish.

"You sure know your roses," he says almost teasingly. "It's beautiful here. Thank you, for taking me."

"Well, you can't be a true Portlandian without seeing the roses which gave the city its nickname," I say.

We spend the next two hours wandering the rest of the park, taking our time to admire the scenery. We even stop at the fountain to toss coins into its water. We would stay longer, but exhaustion is creeping its way back into our systems. There's only more fighting to be done tomorrow.

We take the bus back to Washington Park station and hop onto the MAX that just rolled in. We sit in silence on the ride home. I must have dozed off because before I know it, we're pulling in next to Pioneer Square. We hop off the train and cross the Square to the trains that will take us west; back to Mission Headquarters.

"I had a really great time," Sam says.

"So did I," I say.

The train pulls up, and we hop on without another word. Normally I am very aware of my surroundings, but I felt so peaceful for a moment that I didn't even notice that Marlene, Eric, and Marcus were sitting in the train car adjacent from us. I probably wouldn't have noticed if Sam had not pointed it out to me. They sit huddled together. They've already seen us, and have their heads pulled together and are whispering. Eric's face is black and blue, and I can't help but smile at the sight. I can also tell that Marlene's nose is broken. The only one who looks uninjured his Marcus—because he won his fight no problem.

At first I think he is glaring at me, but no, he's glaring directly at Sam, who has his gaze fixed on the wall in front of him. I say a silent prayer that neither Sam nor myself will be paired against Marcus in a fight. He's ruthless and sadistic and won't stop once you're down.

When we finally make it back to the dorms, it's almost ten-thirty at night. We stop in front of my door.

"Well, good night," I say.

"Good night," he says back. And then he's gone. Back to his own room. I unlock my door, feed Cas, and then head straight to bed, not even bothering to change.

I collapse on the firm mattress and reflect back on the day. I think of Sam and the rose gardens. I feel myself smiling and then thinking nothing at all.


	5. Chapter 5

I CRAWL ACROSS my couch and heave a sigh. It has been two days since my fight with Marlene; since Sam and I went to the rose gardens.

I haven't seen Sam much during that time; only during training and classes and sometimes at lunch. I had to fight again today. I was paired with a boy named Eden; the same boy Marcus beat the first day. His bruises were just starting to turn yellow and he could finally open his eye again. He couldn't throw a good punch if someone was controlling his arm. I got a good hit in during the first two minutes. He fell down and was too dizzy to get back up. I should feel triumphant, but he was still injured and sore from the beating Marcus gave him that I felt no triumph.

Sam was paired against Lauren, who he beat pretty quickly, and Emilee was paired against Teresa. Teresa won.

The second I touch my head to the pillow, the door to my dorm opens, and a person streams into the room with a flashlight. I sit up and squint through the dark to see what's going on. This could only mean one thing.

"Get up!" the person roars. A flashlight shines behind his head, making the rings in his ears glint. Jameson. Surrounding him are my fellow trainees and students from another training class, some of whom I have never seen before. Sam stands among them.

I slide out off the couch.

"You have five minutes to get dressed and meet us by the tracks," says Jameson. "We're going on a field trip.

He turns to leave with the others shuffling behind him. I put on my training outfit, shove my feet in my shoes, and sprint after them on the way to the MAX station.

We make it to the tracks. Next to it is a black pile. I make out a cluster of long gun barrels and trigger guards.

"Are we going to _shoot_ something?" Lauren asks.

Next to the pile are boxes of what looks like ammunition. I inch closer to read one of the boxes. Written on it is "PAINTBALLS".

"Everyone grab a gun!" shouts Jameson.

We rush toward the pile. I am the closest to it, so I snatch the first gun I can find, which is heavy, but not too heavy for me to lift, and grab a box of paintballs. I shove the box in my pocket and sling the gun across my back so the strap crosses my chest.

"Time estimate?" Jameson asks John, another instructor who is here with his trainees.

John checks his watch. "Any minute now. How long is it going to take you to memorize the train schedule?"

"Why should I, when I have you to remind me of it?" says Jameson. John just rolls his eyes.

A circle of light appears on my left, far away. It grows larger as it comes closer, shining against the side of Sam's face, creating a shadow in the faint hollow beneath his cheekbone. I hadn't even realized he was next to me.

The train rolls to a stop and we file on. Once everyone is in, John speaks up.

"We'll be dividing into two teams to play capture the flag. Each team will have an even mix of members, my trainees and Jameson's trainees. One team will get off first and find a place to hide their flag. Then the second team will get off and do the same." The car sways, and John grabs the side of the doorway for balance. "This is tradition, so I suggest you take it seriously."

"What do we get if we win?" someone shouts.

John raises an eyebrow. "You get to win, of course."

"John and I will be your team captains," says Jameson. He looks at John. "Let's divide up my trainees first, shall we?"

I tilt my head back. Contemplating what their strategies will be.

"You go first," John says.

Jameson shrugs. "Marcus."

John leans against the door frame and nods. He scans the group briefly, without calculation, and says, "Evelyn." I nod my head.

"Your turn," says John.

"Marlene."

"Sam."

"Caleb."

"Emilee," says John, biting his thumbnail.

"Hal."

"Eric."

"Lauren."

"Teresa."

"Last one left is Eden. So he's with me," says Jameson. "Your students next."

I stop listening once they've finished with my group. I look at each person John has chosen. What do we have in common?

Once they're halfway through John's group, I have an idea of what it is. With the exception of some, we all share the same body type: lean muscles and narrower frames. All the people on Jameson's team are broad and huge. We will all be faster than Jameson's team, which will be good for capture the flag. It's a game of speed rather than brute force. I cover a smile with my hand. Jameson is more ruthless than John, but John is smarter.

They finish choosing teams, and Jameson smirks at John.

"Your team can get off second," says Jameson.

"Don't do me any favors," John replies. He smiles a little. "You know I don't need them to win."

"No, I know that you'll lose no matter when you get off," says Jameson, biting down briefly on one of the rings in his lip. "Take your scrawny team and get off first, then."

We all stand up. Hal gives me a forlorn look, and I smile back in what I hope is a reassuring way. If any of us had to end up on the same team as Marcus and Marlene, at least it was him. They usually leave him alone.

The train slows down a little but doesn't stop. We've come to a park surrounded by the slummier parts of Portland. It won't stop, so we have to jump.

Just before I jump, someone shoves my shoulder, and I almost topple out of the train car. I don't look back to see who it is—Marlene, Eric, or Marcus, it doesn't matter which one. Before they can try it again, I jump. I'm ready for the momentum the train gives me and I run a few steps to diffuse it but keep my balance. Fierce pleasure courses through me and I smile.

One of John's trainees touches his shoulder and asks, "When your team won, where did you put the flag?"

"Telling you wouldn't really be in the spirit of the exercise, Kaede," he says coolly.

"Come on, John," she whines.

"The boat docks near Tom McCall Waterfront Park," another trainee of John's calls out. He is tall, with brown skin and dark eyes. Handsome. "My brother was on the winning team. They kept the flag at the carousel."

"Let's go there, then," suggests Teresa.

No one objects, so we walk east, toward the waterfront.

I walk close to Sam and Emilee.

"We're close to the waterfront, right?" asks Sam, bumping my shoulders with his own.

"Yeah, it's just east of here, across Hawthorne bridge," I say. He glances at me over his shoulder, and for a second, his expression is full of . . . longing? But then it's gone.

We walk across the bridge. The bridge is built over the Willamette River which connects east Portland to west Portland.

Once we cross the bridge, this section of the city changes. In front of us is a sea of crumbling concrete and broken glass. The silence of this part of the city is eerie; it feels like a nightmare. It's hard to see where I'm going, because it's after midnight and all the city lights are off.

Kaede takes out a flashlight and shines it at the street in front of us.

"Scared of the dark, Kaede?" the dark-eyed boy from John's group teases.

"If you want to step on broken glass, Arthur, be my guest," she snaps. But she turns it off anyway.

I have realized that part of training to be an agent is being willing to make things more difficult for yourself in order to be self-sufficient. There's nothing especially brave about wandering the streets with no flashlight, but we are not supposed to need help, even from light. We are supposed to be capable of anything.

I like that. Because there might come a day when there is no flashlight, there is no gun, there is no guiding hand. And I want to be ready for it.

The buildings end just before the park. A strip of land juts out into a marsh, and rising from it is a giant white wheel with dozens of red passenger cars dangling from it at regular intervals. The Ferris wheel.

"We have one of those, back in Chicago," Sam murmurs.

I turn my head to him. "Do you miss Chicago?"

He shrugs. "Sometimes."

"I can't believe people use to ride those things. For _fun,_" says Emilee, shaking her head.

We walk down the side of the boat docks. All the buildings on my left are empty, their signs torn down and their windows closed, but it is a clean kind of emptiness. Whoever left these places left them by choice and at their leisure. Some places in the city are not like that, but they're father out near the boarders by the outlying cities.

"Dare you to jump into the marsh," says Sam.

"You first!" I say.

We reach the carousel. Some of the horses are scratched and weathered, their tails broken off or their saddles chipped. John takes the flag out of his pocket.

"In ten minutes, the other team will pick their location," he says. "I suggest you take this time to formulate a strategy. Mental preparedness is one aspect of your Special Ops training. Arguably, it is the most important aspect."

He is right about that. What good is a prepared body if you have a scattered mind?

Teresa takes the flag from John.

"Some people should stay here and guard and some people should go out and scout the other team's location," Teresa says.

"Yeah? You think?" Kaede plucks the flag from Teresa's fingers. "Who put you in charge?"

"No one," says Teresa. "But someone's got to do it."

"Maybe we should develop a more defensive strategy. Wait for them to come to us, then take them out," suggests Emilee.

"That's the sissy way out," Arthur says. "I vote we go all out. Hide the flag well enough that they can't find it."

Everyone bursts into conversation at once, their voices louder with each passing second. Emilee defends Teresa's plan; John's group vote for offense; everyone argues about who should make the decision. Sam stands by the edge of the carousel, leaning against the plastic horses. His eyes lift to the sky, where there are no stars, only a round moon peeking through a thin layer of clouds. The muscles in his arms are relaxed; his hand rests on the back of his neck. He looks almost comfortable, holding that gun to his shoulder. He looks pensive.

I close my eyes briefly. Why does he distract me so easily? I need to focus on a strategy.

What would I say if I could shout above the sniping behind me? We can't act until we know where the other team is. They could be anywhere within a two-mile radius, although I can rule out the empty marsh as an option. The best way to find them is not to argue about how to search for them, or how many to send out in a search party.

It's to climb as high as possible.

I look over my shoulder to make sure no one is watching me, but instead I see Sam standing just inches behind me.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he asks.

"The Ferris wheel?" I say.

He smiles and says, "Let's do it."

We walk toward the Ferris wheel with light, quiet footsteps, pressing the guns to our backs with one hand to keep it from making noise.

When I stare up at the Ferris wheel from the ground, my throat feels tighter. It is taller than I thought, so tall I can barely see the cars swinging at the top. The only good thing about its height is that it is built to support weight. If we climb it, it won't collapse beneath us.

My heart pumps faster. It's so dark I can barely see them, but when I stare at the huge, rusted supports holding the wheel in place, I see the rungs of a ladder. Each support is only as wide as my shoulders, and there are no railings to hold us in, but climbing a ladder is better than climbing the spokes of the wheel.

"Would you like to climb first?" I say to Sam.

"That's okay," he says. "You first."

I grab a rung. It's rusting and thin and feels like it might crumble in my hands. I put my weight on the lowest rung to test it and jump to make sure it will hold me up.

"Evelyn" a low voice behind us says. I don't know why it doesn't startle me. Maybe because I am becoming an agent and mental readiness is something I am supposed to develop. Whatever the reason, I look over my shoulder. John stands behind us with his gun slung across his back.

"Yes?" I ask.

"I came to find out what you two think you're doing."

"We're seeking higher ground," I say. "I don't _think _we're doing anything."

I see Sam smile in the dark.

"All right," he says. "Just don't kill yourselves because it will be my neck on the line."

"We'll be fine," Sam says.

John gives a small _hmph_ and walks away.

I climb, and when I'm a few feet off the ground, Sam comes after me. He moves faster than I do, and soon his hands find the rungs that my feet leave.

"So tell me . . .," Sam says quietly as we climb. He sounds breathless. "What do you think the purpose of this exercise is? The game, I mean, not the climbing."

I stare down at the pavement. It seems far away now, but we're not even a third of the way up. Above me is a platform, just below the center of the wheel. That's our destination. I don't even think about how we will climb back down. The breeze that brushed my cheeks earlier now presses against my side. The higher we go, the stronger it will get. I need to be ready.

"Learning about strategy," I say. "Teamwork, maybe."

"Teamwork," he repeats. A laugh hitches in his throat. It sounds like a panicked breath.

"Maybe not," I say. "Teamwork doesn't seem to be a Special Ops priority."

The wind is stronger now. I press closer to the white support so I don't fall, but that makes it hard to climb. Below me the carousel looks small. I can barely see my team under the awning. Some of them are missing—a search party must have left.

Sam says, "It should be a priority."

But I'm not really listening, because the height is dizzying. My hands ache from holding the rungs, and my legs are shaking, but I'm not sure why. It isn't the height that scares me—the height makes me feel alive with energy, every organ and vessel and muscle in my body singing at the same pitch.

Then I realize what it is. It's him. Something about him makes me feel like I am about to fall. Or turn to liquid. Or burst into flames.

My hand almost misses the next rung.

"Now tell me . . .," he says through a bursting breath, "what do you think learning strategy has to do with . . . bravery?"

I find it only slightly odd that he is asking me these questions, but they're good questions.

"It . . . it prepares you to act," I say finally. "You learn strategy so you can use it." I hear him breathing behind me, loud and fast. "Are you alright, Sam?"

"Being up this high . . . ." He gulps for air. "It doesn't scare you at all?"

I look over my shoulder at the ground. If I fall now, I will die. But I don't think I will fall.

A gust of air presses against my left side, throwing my body weight to the right. I gasp and cling to the rungs, my balance shifting. Sam's cold hand clamps around one of my hips, one of his fingers finding a strip of bare skin just under the hem of my T-shirt. He squeezes, steadying me and pushing me gently to the left, restoring my balance.

Now _I _can't breathe. I pause, staring at my hands, my mouth dry. I feel the ghost of where his hand was.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yes," I say, my voice strained.

I keep climbing, silently, until I reach the platform. Judging by the blunted ends of metal rods, it used to have railings, but it doesn't anymore. I sit down and scoot to the end of it so Sam has somewhere to sit. Without thinking, I put my legs over the side. Sam, however, crouches and presses his back to the metal support, breathing heavily.

"You're afraid of heights," I say.

"Mhmm," he says.

I stare at him for a second. I can't help it. To me there's a difference between not being afraid and acting in spite of fear, as he does.

I have been staring at him too long. Again.

"What?" he says quietly.

"Nothing."

I look away from him and toward the city. I have to focus. We climbed up here for a reason.

The city is pitch-black, but even if it wasn't, I wouldn't be able to see very far. A building stands in my way.

"We're not high enough," I say. I look up. Above me is a tangle of white bars, the wheel's scaffolding. If I climb carefully, I can wedge my feet between the supports and the crossbars and stay secure. Or as secure as possible.

"I'm going to climb," I say, standing up. I grab one of the bars above my head and pull myself up.

"Right," Sam says shakily.

"You don't have to follow me," I say, staring at the maze of bars above me. I shove my foot onto the place where two bars cross and push myself up, grabbing another bar in the process. I sway for a second, my heart beating so hard I can't feel anything else. Every thought I have condenses into that heartbeat, moving at the same rhythm.

"Yes, I do," he says.

This is crazy, and I know it. A fraction of an inch of mistake, half a second of hesitation, and my life is over. Heat tears through my chest, and I smile as I grab the next bar. I pull myself up, my arms shaking, and force my leg under me so I'm standing on another bar. When I feel steady, I look down at Sam. But instead of seeing him, I see straight to the ground.

I can't breathe.

I imagine my body plummeting, smacking into the bars as it falls down, and my limbs at broken angles on the pavement. Sam grabs a bar with each hand and pulls himself up, easy, like he's sitting up in bed. But he is not comfortable or natural here—every muscle in his arm stands out. It is a stupid thing for me to think when I am one hundred feet off the ground.

I grab another bar; find another place to wedge my foot. When I look at the city again, the building isn't in my way. I'm high enough to see the skyline. Most of the buildings are black against a navy sky, but the red lights at the top of the John Ross Tower are lit up. They blink half as fast as my heartbeat.

Beneath the buildings, the streets look like tunnels. For a few seconds I see only a dark blanket over the land in front of me, just faint differences between building and sky and street and ground. Then I see a tiny pulsing light on the ground.

"See that?" I say, pointing.

Sam stops climbing when he's right behind me and looks over my shoulder, his chin next to my head. His breaths flutter against my ear, and I feel shaky again, like I did when I was climbing the ladder.

"Yeah," he says. A smile spreads over his face. "It's coming from the park at the end of the docks," he says. "Figures. It's surrounded by open space, but the trees provide some camouflage. Obviously not enough."

"Okay," I say. I look over my shoulder at him. We are so close I forget where I am; instead I notice that the corners of his mouth turn down naturally, just like mine.

"Um," I say. I clear my throat. "Start climbing down. I'll follow you."

Sam nods and steps down. He finds a place for his foot easily and guides his body between the bars. Even in darkness, I see that his hands are bright red and shaking.

I step down with one foot, pressing my weight into one of the crossbars. The bar creaks beneath me and comes loose, clattering against half a dozen bars on the way down and bouncing on the pavement. I'm dangling from the scaffolding with my toes swinging in midair. A strangled gasp escapes me.

"Sam!"

I try to find another place to put my foot, but the nearest foothold is a few feet away, farther than I can stretch. My hands are sweaty and I suppress a scream.

"Hold on!" he shouts. "Just hold on, I have an idea."

He keeps climbing down. He's moving in the wrong direction; he should be coming toward me, not going away from me. I stare at my hands, which are wrapped around the narrow bar so tightly my knuckles are white. My fingers are dark red, almost purple. They won't last long.

I won't last long.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Better not to look. Better to pretend that none of this exists. I hear Sam's boots squeak against metal and rapid footsteps on ladder rungs.

"Sam!" I yell. Maybe he left. Maybe he abandoned me. I count my breaths to calm down. One, two. In, out. _Come on, Sam_ is all I can think. _Come on, do something._

Then I hear something wheeze and creak. The bar I'm holding shudders, and I scream through my clenched teeth as I fight to keep my grip.

The wheel is moving.

Air wraps around my ankles and wrists as the wind Cashes up, like a geyser. I open my eyes. I'm moving—toward the ground. I laugh, giddy with hysteria as the ground comes closer and closer. But I'm picking up speed. If I don't drop at the right time, the moving cars and metal scaffolding will drag at my body and carry me with them, and then I will really die.

Every muscle in my body tenses as I hurtle toward the ground. When I can see the cracks in the sidewalk, I drop, and my body slams into the ground, feet first. My legs collapse beneath me and I pull my arms in, rolling as fast as I can to the side. The cement scrapes my face, and I turn just in time to see a car bearing down on me, like a giant shoe about to crush me. I roll again, and the bottom of the car skims my shoulder.

I'm safe.

I press my palms to my face. I don't try to get up. If I did, I'm sure I would just fall back down. I hear footsteps, and Sam's hands wrap around my wrists. I let him pry my hands from my face.

He encloses one of my hands perfectly between two of his. The warmth of his skin overwhelms the ache in my fingers from holding the bars.

"You alright?" he asks, pressing our hands together.

"Yeah."

He starts to laugh.

After a second, I laugh too. With my free hand, I push myself into a sitting position. I am aware of how little space there is between us—six inches at most. That space feels charged with electricity. I feel like it should be smaller.

He stands, pulling me up with him. The wheel is still moving, creating a wind that tosses my hair back.

"If only we known that the Ferris wheel still worked," I say to sound casual. "We wouldn't have had to climb in the first place."

"Come on," he says. "Time to get their flag."

Sam hesitates for a moment and then takes my arm, his fingertips pressing to the inside of my elbow. He smiles at me and starts toward the carousel, where our team members guard our flag. And I half run, half limp beside him. I still feel weak, but my mind is awake, especially with his hand on me.

Teresa is perched on one of the horses, her legs crossed and her hand around the pole holding the plastic animal upright. Our flag is behind her, a glowing triangle in the dark. Three trainees from John's group stand among the other worn and dirty animals. One of them has his hand on a horse's head, and a scratched horse eye stares at me between his fingers. Emilee sits on the ground, her back against the edge of a horse's foot.

"Where'd the others go?" asks Sam.

He looks as excited as I feel, his eyes wide with energy.

"Did you guys turn on the wheel?" Teresa asks. "What the hell are you thinking? You might as well have just shouted 'Here we are! Come and get us!'" She shakes her head.

"The wheel doesn't matter," says Sam. "We know where they are."

"We?" says Emilee, looking from Sam to me.

"Yes, while the rest of you were twiddling your thumbs, Evelyn and Sam climbed the Ferris wheel to look for the other team," says John, emerging from behind a tree.

"What do we do now, then?" asks one of the members from John's group through a yawn.

Sam looks at me. Slowly the eyes of the other initiates, including Emilee, migrate from him to me. I tense my shoulders, about to shrug and say I don't know, and then an image of the docks stretching out beneath me comes into my mind. I have an idea.

"Split in half," I say. "Four of us go to the right side of the docks, three to the left. The other team is in the park at the end of the docks, so the group of four will charge as the group of three sneaks behind the other team to get to the flag."

"Sounds good," says Teresa, clapping her hands together. "Let's get this night over with, shall we?"

Emilee joins me in the group going to the right, along with Arthur, whose smile looks white against his skin's bronze. I didn't notice it before, but he has a tattoo of a snake behind his ear. I stare at its tail curling around his earlobe for a moment, but then Emilee starts running and I have to follow her.

As I run, I realize that only one of us will get to touch the flag, and it won't matter that it was my plan and my information that got us to it if I'm not the one who grabs it. Though I can hardly breathe as it is, I run faster. I pull my gun around my body, holding my finger over the trigger.

We reach the end of the docks, and I clamp my mouth shut to keep my loud breaths in. We slow down so our footsteps aren't as loud, and I look for the blinking light again. Now that I'm on the ground, it's bigger and easier to see. I point, and Emilee nods, leading the way towards it.

Then I hear a chorus of yells, so loud they make me jump. I hear puffs of air as paintballs go flying and splats as they find their targets. Our team has charged, the other team runs to meet us, and the flag is almost unguarded. Arthur takes aim and shoots the last guard in the thigh. The guard, a short girl with purple hair, throws her gun to the ground in a tantrum.

I sprint to catch up to Emilee. The flag hangs from a tree branch, high above my head. I reach for it, and so does Emilee.

"Come on, Evelyn," she says. "You're already the hero of the day."

She gives me a patronizing look, the way people sometimes look at children when they act too adult, and snatches the flag from the branch. Without looking at me, she turns and gives a whoop of victory. Arthur's voice joins hers and then I hear a chorus of yells in the distance.

Arthur claps my shoulder, and I try to forget about the look Emilee gave me. Maybe she's right; I've already proved myself today. I don't want to be greedy; I do not want to be like Marcus, terrified of other people's strength.

The shouts of triumph become infectious, and I lift my voice to join in, running toward my teammates. Emilee holds the flag up high, and everyone clusters around her, grabbing her arm to lift the flag even higher. I can't reach her, so I stand off to the side, grinning.

A hand touches my shoulder.

"Well done," Sam says quietly.

"I can't believe I missed it!" Hal says again, shaking his head. Wind coming through the doorway of the train car blows his hair in every direction. He groans. "Why did I have to be on the other team?"

"Because life's not fair, Hal, and the world is conspiring against you," says Lauren. "Hey, can I see the flag again?"

Marcus, Marlene, and Eric sit across from the trainees in the corner. Their chests and backs are splattered with blue and pink paint, and they look dejected. They speak quietly, sneaking looks at the rest of us, especially Emilee. That is the benefit of not holding the flag right now—I am no one's target. Or at least, no more than usual.

"So you climbed the Ferris wheel, huh," says Arthur. He stumbles across the car and sits next to me. Kaede, a girl with a flirty smile, follows him.

"Yes," I say. "Sam, too." I nudge him with my elbow. He hasn't said a word the whole ride home.

"Pretty smart of you guys," Kaede says. "I'm Kaede."

"Evelyn," I say. "And that's Sam." He gives a small wave.

Arthur takes one of the paintballs from his gun and squeezes it between his thumb and index finger. The train lurches to the left, and Arthur falls against me, his fingers pinching the paintball until a stream of pink, foul-smelling paint sprays on my face.

Kaede collapses in giggles. I wipe some of the paint from my face, slowly, and then smear it on his cheek. The scent of fish oil wafts through the train car.

"Ew!" He squeezes the ball at me again, but the opening is at the wrong angle, and the paint sprays into his mouth instead. He coughs and makes exaggerated gagging sounds.

I wipe my face with my sleeve, laughing so hard my stomach hurts.

If my entire life is like this, loud laughter and bold action and the kind of exhaustion you feel after a hard but satisfying day, I will be content. As Arthur scrapes his tongue with his fingertips, I realize that all I have to do is get through training, and that life will be mine.

I look at Sam only to find he isn't paying attention. His eyes are focused on Marcus, Marlene, and Eric. They're glaring at us. Sam stiffens next to me, and I come to the conclusion he's probably already came to himself.

We showed them up, again, and they're not happy about it. And they want revenge.


	6. Chapter 6

THE NEXT MORNING, when I trudge into the cafeteria, yawning, I fail to see the foot someone has stuck out in front of me. I trip, and I would have fallen flat on my face if Hal had not caught me. I turn around and see Marcus, Eric, and Marlene laughing.

I shake my head as I start towards a table. _Don't get angry_. He wants to get a rise out of me; he won't. Instead, I imagine punching him in the gut.

"Ignore him," Hal says. "He's an idiot, and if you don't get angry, he'll stop eventually."

"Yeah." I touch my cheeks. They are still warm with an angry blush. I try to distract myself. "Did you talk to Lauren?" I ask quietly. "After . . . you know. Knocking her out."

"Yeah. She's fine. She isn't angry." Hal sighs. "Now I'll always be remembered as the first guy who knocked someone out cold."

"There are worse ways to be remembered. At least they won't antagonize you."

"There are better ways too." He nudges me with his elbow, smiling. "Climbing the Ferris wheel." We sit down at an empty table. I look around the cafeteria for Emilee, Lauren, or Teresa—even Sam—but they're nowhere to be seen. They must have already eaten.

I clear my throat. "One of you had to get knocked out, you know. If it hadn't been her, it would have been you."

"Still, I don't want to do it again." Hal shakes his head, too many times, too fast. He sniffs. "I really don't."

I reach for a piece of toast and say, "But you have to."

He has a kind face. Maybe he is too kind for the life of an agent.

We finish our breakfast and head to the training room together. A large target stands at one end of the room, and next to the door is a table with knives strewn across it. Target practice again. At least it won't hurt. I see Emilee and stand beside her.

Jameson stands in the middle of the room, his posture so rigid it looks like someone replaced his spine with a metal rod. The sight of him makes me feel like the air in the room is heavier, bearing down on me.

"Today will be the last day of stage one," Jameson says. "You will resume fighting each other after lunch. This morning, you'll be learning how to aim. Everyone pick up three knives." His voice is deeper than usual. "And pay attention while I demonstrate the correct technique for throwing them."

At first no one moves.

"Now!"

We scramble for daggers. They aren't as heavy as guns, but they still feel strange in my hands, like I am not allowed to hold them.

"He's in a bad mood today," mumbles Emilee.

"Is he ever in a good mood?" I murmur back.

But I know what she means. Last night's loss must have bothered Jameson more than he let on.

I watch Jameson's arm as he throws a knife. The next time he throws, I watch his stance. He hits the target each time, exhaling as he releases the knife.

He orders, "Line up!"

_Haste_, I think, _will not help._ My brother told me that when I was learning how to ride a bike. I have to think of this as a mental exercise, not a physical exercise. So I spend the first few minutes practicing without a knife, finding the right stance, learning the right arm motion.

Jameson paces too quickly behind us.

"Hey, pigpiss! Remember what a _knife_ is?" shouts Marcus a few people down. It takes me a moment to realize that he's referring to me. Where did he ever come up with that nickname?

Ignoring him, I practice the throw again with a knife in hand but don't release it. I shut out Jameson's pacing, Marcus's jeering, and the nagging feeling that Sam is staring at me, and throw the knife. It spins end over end, sticking into the board near the center of the target. I'm the first person to hit the target.

I smirk as Marcus misses again.

"Hey Marcus," Sam says. "Remember what a _target_ is?"

Next to me, Emilee snorts, and I give a small laugh.

A half hour later, Emilee is the only initiate who hasn't hit the target yet. Her knives clatter to the floor, or bounce off the wall. While the rest of us approach the board to collect our weapons, she hunts the floor for hers.

The next time she tries and misses, Jameson marches toward her and demands, "How slow _are _you? Do you need glasses? Should I move the target closer to you?"

Emilee's face turns red. She throws another knife, and this one sails a few feet to the right of the target. It spins and hits the wall.

"Leave her alone," a voice rings out. I turn my head. The voice was Sam's.

I bite my lip. "What did you say?" Jameson says, turning around. He opens his mouth to say more but before he can, a man wearing an all black suit enters the room. He must be important, because Jameson goes to talk to him right away. I sneak a quick glance over at Sam. He meets my eyes and just gives a slight shrug.

I'm beginning to realize just how sadistic Jameson is and I fear that Sam will have to pay for challenging him in some way or another. Jameson doesn't seem like the kind of person to let that slip by and I wonder if I should be worried.

At noon we break for lunch and head to the cafeteria. I try to persuade Emilee to eat with us, but she's still reeling from the knife throwing and insists on being alone. So I let her.

I grab a plate of food and sit down with my friends. Hal and Lauren are arguing with each other again, and Teresa invited Arthur to sit with us. Across the room I can see Marcus, Eric, and Marlene sitting alone, probably to converse about the possible opponent they will face when we head back to the training room for the fighting.

Finally, I see Sam. He's sitting by himself in the far corner of the room.

"Hey I'll see you guys after lunch, okay?" I say, while grabbing my plate to throw in the trash.

I make my way over to Sam's table and take a seat next to him. We sit in silence for a few moments before I can't bare it any longer.

"That was a good thing you did today. For Emilee," I say.

"We believe in ordinary acts of bravery," he says. "In the courage that drives one person to stand up for another."

I pause. "What's that from?"

"Something my father use to say to me," he says, sighing.

I repeat the line to myself so I won't forget it.

_We believe in ordinary acts of bravery. In the courage that drives one person to stand up for another. _

It is a beautiful thought.

"Who do you think you'll be fighting today?" I say.

"I have a feeling Jameson will put me up against Marcus," he says.

I wince at the thought of it. Sam was able to beat Eric, who is an excellent fighter, but Marcus . . . Marcus is another story. He beat that boy, Eden, to a bloody pulp on the first day; showing no mercy. The second fight he was paired against Caleb—who I hear has been studying hand-to-hand combat since the age of seven, _for fun_—and although the fight was close, Marcus was still able to knock him out cold.

As good as a fighter Sam is, I still don't want to see him get hurt. The very thought of it upsets me even though living life as an agent is bound to have its risks. I turn to look at Sam. There was no nervousness in his voice and I detect no trace of it on his features either. Whoever Sam is paired with, he will show the same audacity he does for every situation he's put against. And I admire him for it.

"Hey, where did you disappear to during lunch?" Lauren asks when I walk into the training room. I squint to see the blackboard across the room. The spaces next to our names are blank—I haven't gotten an opponent yet.

"I sat with Sam," I say.

Jameson stands in front of the board and writes a name next to Sam's. _Please don't let it be Marcus, please, please…_

"You okay, Evelyn? You look a little . . . ," says Hal.

"A little what?"

Jameson moves away from the board. I cover my mouth to suppress the gasp from coming out. The name written next to Sam is indeed Marcus.

"On edge," says Hal.

Sam's fight is last on the list, which means I have to wait through three matches—not including my own—before he faces him. Lauren and I fight second to last. Lauren is decent but I will easily be able to take her down. Teresa will fight Hal, which means that Hal will lose quickly, like he's been doing all week.

"Go easy on me, okay?" Lauren asks me.

"I make no promises," I say, only half-teasing.

The first pair—Emilee and Eden—stand across from each other in the arena. For a second they both shuffle back and forth, one jerking an arm forward and then retracting it, the other kicking and missing. Across the room, Jameson leans against the wall and yawns.

I stare at the board and try to predict the outcome of each match. It doesn't take long—except for the last one. Then I bite my fingernails and think about Marcus. Caleb lost to him, which only discourages me. He has a powerful punch and is fast, too.

I try to meet Sam's eye but he keeps his gaze on the fight. I turn my own attention to the arena in time to see Emilee go down. Eden helps her off the floor and walks her out of the arena.

As expected, the next fight between Teresa and Hal is quick and painless. Hal falls after a few hard hits to the face and doesn't get back up, which makes Jameson shake his head.

Caleb and Eric's fight takes longer. Though they are two of the best fighters, the disparity between them is noticeable. Caleb's fist slams into Eric's jaw. It's obvious he has been studying combat since he was seven. He is faster _and_ smarter.

By the time the three matches are done, my nails are bitten to the beds and I'm hungry for dinner. I walk to the arena without looking at anyone or anything but the center of the room.

Lauren stands across from me. She'll make the first move. She always does.

She starts toward me and forms her hand into a fist. As her body shifts forward, I duck and drive my fist into her stomach, right over her bellybutton. Before she can get her hands on me, I slip past her, and kick her from behind. She falls over and I'm on top of her before she can get back up. I punch her in the jaw, in the nose, and the ribs and she manages to land a good punch to my own jaw. I stand, my hands up, ready for her next attempt.

She pushes herself off the ground but is slow and unsteady. She lurches forward and throws a punch, but I duck, spin, and kick her in the ribs and she falls back to the ground, making no attempt to get up. I lower my hands.

Across the room, Jameson circles my name on the board. I help Lauren up off the floor and guide her to the side of the room, helping her sit in a chair.

"Next match—Sam and Marcus!" shouts Jameson.

I watch as Sam and Marcus make their way to the center of the arena. Sam looks calm. Marcus on the other hand, wears a smirk on his face. If I could find a way to slap that look off his face, I would.

Marcus starts toward him and throws his weight into a punch but Sam is faster, ducking and driving his fist into Marcus's ribs. He slips past him, his hands up, ready for his next move.

Marcus isn't smirking anymore. He runs at Sam like he's about to tackle him, but Sam moves out of the way. Sam blocks the next punch with his forearm, grimacing as he does and grits his teeth. Marcus lets out a frustrated groan, more animal-sounding than human and tries a sloppy kick at Sam's side, which he dodges, and while Marcus's balance is off, Sam rushes forward and forces his elbow into Marcus's face. Marcus pulls his head back just in time, and the elbow grazes his chin.

Marcus punches Sam in the ribs which cause him to stumbles to the side, recovering his breath. I watch Marcus for a few seconds. His hands are too high; they guard his nose and cheeks, leaving his stomach and ribs exposed.

Their eyes meet for just a second.

Sam must realize this, because he aims an uppercut low, below Marcus's bellybutton. His fist sinks into Marcus's flesh, forcing a heavy breath from his mouth. As he gasps, Sam sweep-kicks his legs out from under him, and Marcus falls hard on the ground, sending dust into the air. Sam pulls his foot back and kicks as hard as he can at Marcus's ribs.

Marcus curls into a ball to protect his side, and Sam kicks again, this time hitting him in the stomach. He kicks again, this time hitting him in the face. Blood springs from Marcus's nose and spreads over his face. Another kick hits him in the chest and it's over. Jameson circles Sam's name on the board. Victory.

Was it really that easy? I meet eyes with Sam and smile. He's breathing heavy but manages a smile back. And that's when I see it. Sam has his back turned to Marcus, so he is unprepared for the blow that hits him in the back of the head.

Sam stumbles forward, hands on his head. He turns around just in time for Marcus to tackle him. I can hear the breath leave his lungs upon hitting the floor. Marcus pulls back his fist and punches Sam so hard in the face, I can almost feel it myself. Blood begins to stream from his nose and Marcus punches again, this time in the ribs, and then again in the kidneys. He stands up and goes to town on Sam. He kicks him in the ribs and in the stomach _hard_, over and over again with such force I swear I can feel it in my own gut. Sam is curled into a ball, his arms protecting his head.

No one makes a move to stop Marcus. I look to Jameson and see that he wears a cruel smile on his face. Heat flushes my cheeks. "Do something!" I shout. "Make him stop!"

Jameson rolls his eyes and motions for Caleb and Hal to help him stop Marcus. It takes all three of them to pull Marcus off. While they detain him against the wall I rush to Sam who still lies on the floor. Blood pours from his nose and some of it even trickles from his ear. He's breathing is labored and his arms are clutched around his middle.

I try to help him sit up, but this just makes him cry out and fall back down. He raises a hand to his mouth and coughs. When he pulls his hand away, bits of blood splatters his palm. It can't be good if he's coughing up blood. "Someone help me get him to the infirmary!" I shout.

I turn back to Sam. He's having a difficult time breathing; his breaths rapid and shallow. He must have punctured a lung, perhaps it has even collapsed.

Teresa rushes over and helps me get Sam to his feet. He can hardly stand, so we half-drag, half-carry him out the door.

By the time we reach the infirmary, he is struggling to keep concious. A nurse spots us and immediately rushes over. She leads us to one of the many hospital beds lining the wall on one side of the room and we lay Sam down as gently as we can.

Teresa leaves me alone with Sam and the nurse who has a stethoscope pressed on various places around his chest. She gently pushes me to the side with her free hand and removes the instrument from her ears, draping it around her neck. She grabs a pair of surgical scissors and cuts Sam's shirt open. I almost faint at the sight. Black and blue bruising is already coloring his whole chest and stomach. The nurse makes gentle palpations around his ribs, causing Sam to wince.

I step forward and grab his hand, squeezing it in my own. He squeezes back twice as hard.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave now," the nurse tells me. I'm reluctant to go but I know she needs to help Sam.

"I'll be right outside," I tell him.

Definitely broken ribs. I sit in the waiting room reeling at everything that just happened. I'm so _angry. _Angry at Jameson, angry at Marcus, angry at everybody.

I sit back in the chair and close my eyes, head in my hands. Trying to block the images of Marcus hitting Sam over and over and _over again. _My eyes are wet and I'm finding it hard to breathe myself. I feel a pang in my chest. The pained look on Sam's face broke my heart.

I'm not sure how much time has gone by, but the nurse is back and she's telling me I can come back inside. I wipe my eyes and straighten my clothes, trying to compose myself as much as I can. The nurse tells me he has five broken ribs, one of which punctured his left lung, which did indeed collapse. They gave him some bone-mending shot—new technology our scientists have developed, allowing the bones to heal twice as fast. The nurse was able to inflate the lung before chest tubes were needed. He also has a concussion and some serious bruising. He was given some painkillers and has managed to fall asleep. They insist on keeping him over night for further observation, though.

She guides me to his hospital bed and tells me I can stay as long as I want. I thank her, and sit in the chair next to his bed. A thick bandage his wrapped around his bare chest, right where his ribs are and he's wearing an oxygen mask to help him breathe better.

I take one of his hands in my own and hold it there. I haven't known Sam very long, and for some reason I can't explain, I deeply care for him and it hurts me to see him lying in this bed. A new wave of anger courses through me and I swallow it back down. Being angry won't help the situation.

Surely Marcus will be reprimanded for his actions. It is cowardly to hit a man when he is unprepared. I know there are rules against deliberately attacking someone like that, but with people like Jameson in charge, I suspect those rules go unenforced. Anger pulses through me once again.

I sigh and rub my hands through my hair, leaning back in my chair. Despite the bruises on Sam's face, he looks much younger as he sleeps. I realize there is still so much I don't know about this boy; how much I _want _to know who he is.

My eyelids are heavy and it's getting harder and harder to keep them open. Curtains are pulled taut around the bed, giving us privacy. It's dark and quiet, the only sound coming from the faint typing on a keyboard near the entrance into the infirmary. I decide I might as well sleep. Sam isn't going anywhere

I close my eyes, and let the darkness take me.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:**

**Thanks so much for the reviews! I'm glad you are enjoying the story! Here is the next chapter. Enjoy!  
**

* * *

A SUNDAY AFTERNOON. Hot and mucky with an overcast sky. I'm laid up in bed with a bad case of the flue. I'm fourteen years old. Cas, only a puppy, was asleep on our condo's cool marble floor. I lay feverishly in bed while my brother sits by my side, his brow furrowed with worry. We could hear our care taker making dinner in the kitchen. The clang of a pot here and there as she put together some kind of stew. Since we both passed our Trial and our parents still lived in Hillsboro, we were assigned a care taker to watch over us until the age of sixteen. She's nice, but she's not my mom.

"You don't have to sit here with me, you know," I say to my brother. "You should go to your award ceremony. I'll be sick either way."

He ignored me and placed another cool towel on my head. "I'll be _awarded_ either way," he said. He fed me a slice of orange. I remember watching him peel that orange for me; he cut one long, efficient line in the fruit's peel, and then removed it all in one piece.

"But you worked so hard for it." I blinked through swollen eyes. "If you don't go, you might be kicked out like some street con."

My brother tapped my nose disapprovingly. "Don't call people that, Ev. It's rude. And they can't kick me out of school for missing the ceremony. Besides," he added with a wink, "I'm their best student."

I grinned. My brother was so incredibly smart. Give him a problem to solve and he would find a way.

I opened my mouth so he could feed me another piece of orange. "You should go out more often. Maybe then you'd get a girlfriend."

He just laughed. "I don't need a girlfriend. I've got a baby sister to take care of."

"Come on," I say. "I'm only eleven months younger than you. Besides, you're going to get a girlfriend _someday_."

"We'll see. Guess I'm picky like that."

I stopped to look my brother directly in the eyes. "Todd, do you think mom and dad miss us?"

Todd reached over to push sweaty strands of my hair away from my face. "Don't be stupid, Ev. Of course mom and dad miss us. And she would be doing a much better job at taking care of you than I am."

"No. _You_ take care of me the best," I murmured. My eyelids were growing heavy.

My brother smiled. "Nice of you to say so."

"You're not going to ever leave me, are you? You'll stay with me?"

Todd kissed me on the forehead. "Forever and ever, Ev, until you're sick and tired of seeing me."

I open my eyes to the harsh lights of the infirmary. For a moment I am confused, but then I remember the fight with Marcus. My neck is sore from sleeping in the chair all night. I yawn and stretch my arms.

My dream starts to come back to me in bits and pieces. The ache of Todd's absence hits me so hard that I almost double over. He promised that he would never leave me. I stifle a tiny sob coming from my mouth with my hand and glance at where Sam lies. I'm grateful that he's still asleep so he can't see me like this.

I get up and walk toward the bathroom, stiffness in my every joint. I splash some cold water on my face to wake up. Once I feel more composed, I head back to Sam's bedside only to find that he has woken up while I was gone.

"Hey," I say rushing over to him. "How do you feel?"

"Like hell," he says. He groans and tries to sit up a bit more, wincing with every movement. "Have you been here all night?"

"Yeah," I say, shyly. I look down to the floor and then back to him. It's obvious he feels miserable. The bruises are even worse today.

"The nurse said you could be released this afternoon," I tell him. He just nods his head. We sit in silence for a while before the nurse walks in. She let's Sam know what kind of injuries he has and gives him specific instructions on what do to when he gets back to the dorms.

"No strenuous exercise what-so-ever for at least three weeks," she said. Then she smiled and left us alone again.

"You had me so worried, Sam," I say. He turns to look at me and gives a small smile.

"I like how you call me Sam," he says.

I roll my eyes. "That's your _name_, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but when you say it makes me feel . . . like I'm at home or something," he says, which gets my curiosity going.

"Why did you leave?" I ask. "Why come here?" I remember thinking those same questions when I first met him. I need to more about him. I _want_ to know more about him.

But all he does is sigh and say, "It's complicated." And I don't press any further. I'll wait until he decides is the right time tell me. Plus, I get the feeling that talking of home is painful for him. This, of course, just makes me even more curious.

"Are you okay?" he asks. "You seem kind of . . . upset."

And I am upset. Most of it has to do with Sam lying in this bed, but another part of it has to do with my dream; of how much I miss Todd. My eyes fill with tears just thinking about him and I quickly blink them away, hoping Sam doesn't notice. But he does notice.

"Evelyn, what's wrong?"

"It's . . . it's everything. What Marcus did to you, how you're in this bed and he's out there walking around—"

"Well if I remember correctly," Sam says, "he didn't escape completely unscathed."

I relax a little at the humor in his voice. "I had a dream," I say, quietly.

"What was it about?" he says, his voice softer.

"My brother." He stares at me a moment, as if deciding on what he should say and then says, "What happened to him?"

"He died," I say. "Almost four months ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he says. He says it almost empathetically rather than sympathetic.

It takes me a moment to say anything, but then I do, my voice is barely a whisper, "I really miss him. I thought he would be around for a long time, you know, someone I could always lean on. He was all I had left. And now he's gone." And then my eyes fill with the tears I've been trying so hard to hold back. One falls and rolls down my cheek. Sam takes my hand in his and gently squeezes it. I wipe my eyes with my free hand.

"Look at me," I say. "I'm a mess."

"You're grieving," he says.

"I've been fine for the most part. It's just with all the recent news updates about the mysterious plaque disease that makes it the hardest to move on," I say. He stiffens ever-so-slightly when I mention the plaque. "That's how he died."

Sam gently squeezes my hand again. He looks exhausted, and I can see that he's fighting the urge to fall asleep again from the pain meds.

"I should let you rest," I say, getting up. He lets go of my hand.

"Okay," he says.

I pull the curtain that still hangs around the bed side. The infirmary is mostly empty. Just one or two patients besides Sam.

"Will you be coming back?" he says.

I turn back to look at him. "Of course," I say. "And after you've slept for a bit we'll get you signed out and into your own bed."

He smiles and closes his eyes. "I would like that. . . ." and then he's gone. Drifting into sleep.

I decide to go back to my dorm for a while and clean up. Cas is probably worried about me, anyways.

When I open my door I'm almost tackled by Cas. "Cas, get down!" I say, laughing. He licks my face and then runs into the living area, spinning in circles. "Just calm down, all right? I'm back now."

I take a quick shower and then get dressed. I don't even bother to put my hair up, I just let it fall around my shoulders. Cas lies on my bed, his head resting on his front paws. "I'm gonna leave again, okay boy? You be good," I say. I pat his head walk out of the room. I slide my feet into some shoes and then I'm gone.

The physical preparedness stage of our training is now over, and we have a few days off to recover from any injuries sustained during that time to relax. In a way, these next few weeks of training will be just as—if not more—exhausting than the physical training. There will be hours of classroom time while we learn how to load and unload guns, hack computers, undercover training, and lots of espionage. You could technically be assigned to a mission at any time—that is, if they believe you are good enough. My brother started his training earlier than I did, and he was so good at it, they pulled him out of class and put him into a more intense and methodical training regimen. He was on his way to becoming one of the best agents ever seen. And I'm not far behind. I've shown exceptional promise since the beginning and I know they have their eye on me.

As I make my way back to the infirmary, I run into Hal.

"Oh, hey Hal," I say.

He looks at me closely. "You feeling okay, Evelyn?" he asks. His eyes are dark brown, almost the same color as chocolate. His cheeks look rough, like if he didn't shave it, he would have a thick beard. Hard to believe he's only seventeen.

"Yeah," I say. He has a distinct smell—sweet and fresh, like sage and lemongrass.

"Oh, you missed Jameson's announcement. The rankings for stage one will be posted tonight at dinner," he says.

"Good," I say. "Thanks."

"You look good." He smiles a little. "I mean—you always look good. Brave."

His eyes skirt mine, and he scratches the back of his head. The silence seems to grow between us. It was a nice thing to say, but he acts like it meant more than just the words. I hope I am wrong. I could not be attracted to anyone that fragile. I smile, hoping that will diffuse the tension.

"I should let you go," he says. He starts to walk away, but before he can go, I grab his wrist.

"Hal, are you okay?" I say.

He pulls his hand free and shoves it in his pocket. "I figure that since I beat Lauren, if I lose all the rest, I won't be ranked last, but I won't have to hurt anyone anymore."

"Is that really what you want?"

He looks down. "I just can't do it. Maybe that means I'm a coward."

"You're not a coward just because you don't want to hurt people," I say, because I know it's the right thing to say, even if I'm not sure I mean it.

For a moment we are both still, looking at each other. Maybe I do mean it. If he is a coward, it isn't because he doesn't enjoy pain. It is because he refuses to act.

He gives me a pained look. I look around and see a bench behind us. I gesture for us to sit down. Maybe he just needs to talk to someone.

I sit down next to him. My leg is barely half the width of his. He wears black shorts. His knee is purple-blue with a bruise and crossed with a scar.

Hal laughs harshly. "Mom and Dad always wanted me to come here. I mean, they said they wanted me to be happy, but they've always admired Special Ops."

"Oh." I tap my fingers against my knee. Then I look at him. "Is that why you chose to enroll here? Because of your parents?"

Hal shakes his head. "No, I guess it was because . . . I think it's important to protect people. To stand up for people." He smiles at me. "That's what Special Ops are supposed to do, right? That's what courage is. Not . . . hurting people for no reason."

"Maybe it will be better once training is over."

"Too bad I might not make it," Hal says. "I guess we'll see tonight."

We sit side-by-side for a while. My father use to say that sometimes, the best way to help someone is just to be near them. I feel good when I do something I know he would be proud of, like it makes up for all the things I've done that he wouldn't be proud of.

"I feel braver when I'm around you, you know," he says. "Like I could actually fit in here, the same way you do."

I am about to respond when he slides his arm across my shoulders. Suddenly I freeze, my cheeks hot.

I didn't want to be right about Hal's feelings. But I was.

I do not lean into him. Instead I sit forward so his arm falls away. Then I squeeze my hands together in my lap.

"Evelyn, I . . .," he says. His voice sounds strained. I glance at him. His face is as red as mine feels, but he's not crying—he just looks embarrassed.

"Um . . . sorry," he says. "I wasn't trying to . . . um. Sorry."

I wish I could tell him not to take it personally. But of course, it _is_ personal. He is my friend—and that is all. What is more personal than that?

I breathe in, and when I breathe out, I make myself smile. "Sorry about what?" I ask, trying to sound casual. I brush off my jeans, though there isn't anything on them, and stand up.

"I should go," I say.

He nods and doesn't look at me.

"You going to be okay?" I say. "I mean . . . ." I let my voice trail off. I don't know what I would say if I didn't.

"Oh. Yeah." He nods again, a little to vigorously. "I'll see you later, Evelyn."

I try not to walk away too fast. When I round a corner, I touch a hand to my forehead and grin a little. Awkwardness aside, it is nice to be liked.

I open the doors to the infirmary and head straight over to Sam's bed, but just before I pull back the curtain I hear a voice. I stop and listen. I really shouldn't be eavesdropping, but it's too hard to resist. I've always been a curious one since I can remember. It may get me killed one day.

". . . this is exactly what we were afraid of," says the voice. But I recognize that voice, I recognize it all too well. Coulson. I pull back the curtain and walk to Sam's bedside. Coulson stands off to the far side of us, his hands folded in front of him. He stops talking once I enter and smiles. I look at Sam, but his face his blank and expressionless, a bit tired too.

"What's going on?" I say.

"I'm glad you could join us, Ms. Carter," says Coulson. "We have much to discuss."


	8. Chapter 8

WE PULL THE curtains taut around the area to ensure maximum privacy. This isn't too hard, considering how empty this place is at the moment. Whatever the situation may be, it must be very imperative to merit a visit from Coulson himself.

Phil Coulson. Head Mission Commander for Sector 4's Special Ops training agency. He's tall and lean, early forties, and very stern and he's _very _intelligent. He's somewhat of a legend in Sector 4. Born into one of Portland's most wealthy and influential families, Phil Coulson is the youngest to ever train and graduate Special Ops. He's somewhat of a prodigy they like to call him. Worked his way up the ranks until was in charge and overseeing everything. Whenever I get in trouble—which is quite often—he's the one I am to report to. We're quite familiar with each other.

I pull a chair up next to Sam's bed and sit down. Coulson does this too, sitting in front of us. I exchange an uneasy glance with Sam. I want to ask Sam what they were talking about before I arrived, but before I can say anything, Coulson is already speaking.

"We have evaluated each of your files for a very long time now," he says, "and we feel that you both fit the criteria for what we are looking for."

"Which would be . . .," I say.

"I am immediately recruiting you two for your very first mission. Starting next month, you will be training under a very carefully planned regimen to prepare you," he says.

I stare at him, shocked. I can't believe I'm hearing this. I look to Sam but he just nods his head.

"What's the mission?" I ask.

"We're continuing to have further plaque outbreaks and our doctors and scientists are sill completely baffled as to finding an antidote. And not only that, but it's now mutated into an even more lethal strain of disease. We've never seen anything like it. We're losing more and more people by the day. We have reason to believe that this outbreak is not by accident," he says.

"Wait, you mean that you believe someone has created a disease and released it among the Sectors?" I ask, bewildered.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," he says. "And we have probable cause to believe the corporate is none other than Jason Ambrose."

Jason Ambrose. Wealthy and powerful. He practically rules over Sector 5 in Seattle, Washington. Everyone knows who he is. He's probably one of the most deceptive and sadistic people in the world. I hear he use to be a good man. That is, until his thirst for power led him completely over the edge. Rumor has it he use to murder those who posed a threat to his position by poisoning their drinks and even drinking small amounts of the same poison himself to divert suspicion away from himself. It wouldn't surprise me if he created this disease _and _the cure, waiting for a mass pandemic before he comes forth with the antidote, selling it for a price so high, only the rich and desperate could afford it. We've been keeping tabs on Ambrose for years now; it would only make sense his first plan of attack would be Portland.

Many years ago, when Coulson was training to be an agent, there was also another trainee who held the attention of the superiors. You guessed it: Jason Ambrose. Coulson won the favor, and Ambrose has had a personal vendetta against him ever since. Let's just say Sector 4 and 5 don't like each other, and since Ambrose is particularly influential among all the Sectors, not many of them like Sector 4, either. We have a few friends, of course. Sector 7 is one of them.

My father use to say that those who want power and get live in terror of losing it. That's why we should give power to those who do not want it.

If Jason Ambrose is indeed the one responsible for the outbreak of the disease which ultimately led to my brother's death—I will make it my _own_ personal mission to see Ambrose locked behind bars forever.

"We have reason to believe that the disease is being created in secret labs located around all of Sector Two," says Coulson.

Sector 2 is located in San Francisco, California. One of the poorest Sectors; nicknamed the Slums. Perfect place to create and distribute a disease. Especially if you don't want to be discovered. The cities outlying it are even slummier. I'm not even sure why it's considered a Sector anymore.

"Why specifically choose us for the mission?" I say.

"The capture the flag game that is organized every year is a sort of . . . a test I created. The fact that you two were the only ones who thought of seeking higher ground impressed me a great deal. I've talked with both John and Jameson and both agreed that you two are the best trainees they've seen since, well, your brother, Evelyn," he says. "After further careful evaluation of your skills and knowledge, we have officially selected you two for the mission. That is, if you accept."

I exchange a glance with Sam. His eyes are thoughtful. I know I want to do this mission. Perhaps it will give me the final closure needed for my brother's death. But there's no one else I would rather have watching my back than Sam. If he doesn't go, I won't go.

"Sam, what do you think?" I ask him.

"I think," he says, "that I'm in."

I turn back to Coulson. "We'll do it," I say.

"Marvelous," says Coulson. "I'm giving you two four weeks to heal and prepare yourselves. We'll begin devising a strategy for infiltrating Ambrose's factories then."

He gets up and leaves without a further word.

"Wow, this is—"

"Unexpected?" says Sam.

"Definitely that," I say. I turn around to look at Sam. He looks so tired. He couldn't have slept very long after I left. Ten minutes maybe. He seems a little tense, too. The pain medication must be wearing off. "Are you ready to get checked out?"

He sighs. "Yes."

I go to the nurse's station to retrieve the release papers and let Sam get dressed. When I get back, I can see him struggling to put his shirt on. "Here, let me," I say, grabbing his shirt.

"Thank you," he says. He lifts his arms for me, wincing as he does, and I slip the shirt over his head and help him guide his arms through the sleeves. I gingerly touch his side with my fingers. "How are you feeling?" I ask him.

"I'm fine," he says, his voice strained.

"Sure you are," I say, rolling my eyes. I slip his feet into his shoes and then hand him the release papers. "Sign these."

He signs them and then lays them on the edge of the bed. He grips the edge of a chair and tries to pull himself up. He grimaces, but eventually gets to his feet. We walk out of the infirmary very slowly. His movements are stiff and sore. But he just grits his teeth and doesn't complain.

After what seems like an eternity, we finally make it to his dorm. He hands me his key so I can unlock the door and help him inside. By the time he makes it over to his couch and sits down, his breathing is heavy. I hate that he's in pain. I grab the pain killers the nurse gave us and get him a glass of water.

"Take these," I say, handing him the water and pills. He pops them in his mouth and then chugs the water.

"Thanks," he says, wiping his mouth.

"Anytime," I say. "Do you need anything?

He leans into the couch a bit, wincing as he does so. He hesitates like he wants to say something, but then just shakes his head. "I'm fine," he says.

"Well, you know where to find me if you need anything." I give him a smile and then walk out of the dorm. I'll come back and check on him in a while, but in the mean time I need to occupy myself. I decide a walk around downtown Portland will suffice.

I make my way to the MAX station and take the train to Pioneer Square. Everything Coulson told us sticks heavily in my mind. The idea that the plaque was no accident both angers and scares me. How far will Jason Ambrose go to achieve what he wants most? He already has power over an entire Sector—might as well throw in Sector 2 as well. What more could he want? Complete control over . . . all the Sectors? Whatever he's striving for, it needs to be stopped. And I feel proud knowing I will play a part in that.

After a short while the MAX starts coming to a slow at Pioneer Square. It's not as busy as usually is—just a small crowd of people here and there. The weather is overcast and a bit breezy. Typical Portland. I'm just surprised it's not raining. I climb down the brick steps and stand in the middle of the Square. The buildings in this part of the city are just as elaborate as ever.

"Evelyn!" I whip around at the sound of my name being called. A small blonde girl is making her way towards me.

"Hello, Emilee," I say.

"What are you doing?" she asks me.

"Just wanted to clear my head a bit. What are _you_ doing?"

"I was here with Lauren but then we ran into Arthur. I think they have a thing for each other," she says. "I didn't want to be the third wheel so was just on my way back to the dorms when I saw you."

"I suspected something was going on between those two," I say.

"They're not very discreet," she agrees. I realize that I haven't spent much time with Emilee lately and I miss her comfort. I lay a hand on her shoulder. "How are you doing? " I ask.

The smile fades from her mouth. "I'm doing okay."

"Really?" I say, dropping my hand. She looks to the ground. "Come on, let's go get ice cream."

We make our way to the ice cream shop at the edge of the Square. We each get a scoop of vanilla and sit down on the brick steps. I can tell there's something bothering her. She must be nervous for the rankings to come out. I decide letting her talk it out might make her feel better.

"So, tell me. What's wrong?" I say.

She takes a moment to reply, but when she finally does her voice is barely a whisper. "I want to go home," she says, weakly, with tears in her eyes. I set my ice cream down, giving her my undivided attention. I set my mouth in a hard line. The training is getting to her. I can't let her quit.

"Learning how to act in the midst of fear," I say, "is a lesson that everyone needs to learn. That's what they're trying to teach us. If you can't learn it, you'll need to get the hell out of here, because they won't want you." I sound a little harsh, but she needs to hear this. She needs to understand that she can't quit. Not now. Not when she's so close to finishing. She can't prove to everyone what they already think of her and give them that satisfactory. I won't allow it.

"I'm _trying_," she says. Her lower lip trembles. "But I failed. I'm failing."

I sigh. "Emilee, no one said this was going to easy. We knew when we signed up for this that it would be the toughest decisions of our lives. We knew what signing our names meant. You're special, Emilee, whether you see that or not. You may not be the strongest, but you're _smart_. You know how to work your way out of a tough situation. Whatever you are, you're not a failure."

"I just don't want to be afraid anymore," she says. "I want to be fearless. Like you."

"I'm not fearless, Emilee. And becoming fearless isn't the point. That's impossible. It's learning how to control your fear, how to be free from it, _that's _the point," I say.

"I didn't know that becoming an agent would be this difficult," she finally says.

"It wasn't always like this, I'm told," I say, lifting a shoulder. "We never use to needs agents."

"What changed?"

"The leadership for one," I say, "and the natural tendency people have for power."

She sniffs, and wipes her face and smooth down her hair.

"Do I look like I've been crying?" she says.

I study her for a moment, narrowing my eyes. "No Emilee." I say, giving her a more serious look. "You look tough as nails."

She smiles. And wipes her face one more time. She was just having a moment of weakness. She'll be back to her strong-willed self in no time.

"I never really said I was sorry," Emilee says quietly. "For taking the flag when you earned it. I don't know what was wrong with me."

Her wide eyes meet mine. "Let's just forget about," I say.

She looks down. "Okay."

"Let's go back to the dorms. I bet I could shoot a muffin off of Teresa's head!" I say, getting up.

"I would love to see that," says Emilee.

When we get back to Mission Headquarters, we track down Lauren, Hal, and Teresa and take turns shooting muffins off the top of each other's heads. They weren't _real_ bullets, of course. Just some plastic pellets used for training. We're not stupid. Emilee is in much better moods and having fun with everyone that I decide to leave. It's close to dinner time now. I'll check on Sam.

I head to my dorm first and call Cas. He bounds off the couch and run to the door with his tail wagging. "Come on, boy. Let's go see Sam." We head down the hall and knock on Sam's door. It takes a few moments, but finally he opens the door. Cas trots forward and sticks his head into Sam's hands. I smile.

"Just thought we'd come say hi," I say.

"Would you like to come in?" he asks.

"Sure," I say. Sam opens the door wider, stepping to the side to make way for us. I walk to the couch and take a seat while Cas settles down on the floor.

"Would you like anything to drink?" he says.

"I'm okay. Thank you, though."

He nods his head and walks over to where I'm sitting. He slowly lowers himself onto the couch to sit next to me, wincing the whole time. I shake my head. Another wave of anger courses through me. He still looks exhausted.

"Did you manage to get any sleep?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Tried to. I did for a little bit but . . . ." He trails off. He doesn't need to finish. I've broken a couple ribs before. Not only is it extremely painful, but it also complicates everything you do. Even the small stuff like sleeping. I can't imagine what it's like to have six broken ribs, though.

I look up to find him staring at me. I don't look away. Despite the bruises that cover his face—he's still just as handsome. His eyes are an interesting of green. They're mesmerizing. I feel like I've been staring too long, but he's not looking away either. I feel heat flush my cheeks. Whatever it is . . . this feeling I have, I can't shake it. I feel a connection with this boy that I can't explain.

I decide I can't take any more of the tension and divert my eyes to the ground. I can feel the blush in my cheeks. When I steel a quick glance at him I can see that he's staring at the wall on his left. I clear my throat and shift my body so I am facing him.

I'm just about to say something when Sam turns around to face me so suddenly that I forget what I was going to say. There's something urgent in his eyes.

"There's something I need to tell you," he says.

I blink a few times and then say, "Okay."

He leans forward and grits his teeth from the sudden movement. He ignores the pain and fixes his gaze on mine. "There's a reason I left Chicago," he says. He takes a deep breath—which causes him to wince—and closes his eyes for a moment, as if carefully choosing the words to say. "My father was a very influential man. Enough to merit a visit from Jason Ambrose."

I stare at him, slightly confused. "What did Ambrose want with your father?"

"My father was one of the top scientists in Chicago. Perhaps the country. One night while he was at work, he was approached by Ambrose who inquired if it was possible to create a disease so deadly that it killed in a matter of days," he says. "My father said it was possible, but only by mutating existing diseases together to create a new strain—,"

"Your dad is the one responsible for all this?" I interrupt.

"No, he never went through with it," says Sam.

"But he was going to," I say, frowning.

"I may have been born into Sector Seven, but my family was struggling for money. Ambrose offered my father a large sum of money in return for creating a disease _and _the cure. I overheard my father discussing it with my mother that night. I told him not to do it, but he said he didn't have a choice. They would kill my mother and I." He takes another deep breath. "He told Ambrose he would do it, but only to buy the time to get me out of Chicago."

He fixes me with a sad smile. "My father knew he couldn't create a disease that would kill hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, but he couldn't just let me die, either. Later that night, Ambrose's men came for him. My father had connections with people who could get me out of the Sector. Coulson he's . . . my uncle. He's responsible for getting me here," he shrugs.

Coulson is Sam's uncle? What a lot of new interesting things I'm learning today.

"Anyways, my mother helped me escape out the window. She had just let go of my arm when they shot her. I heard more gunshots, and ran. Then they came after me. They knew I knew something and couldn't let me get away. They chased me, but I lost them. I . . .," his voice falters a little bit, "I just had to get away. So I found the people who could get me out there and I disappeared. I took a train to Sector Four, and Coulson took care of the rest."

I let all this new information sink in. What would it be like, to watch your family sacrifice themselves so you could live? "Does he know what happened with your parents?" I ask.

"I told him what Ambrose was planning and he said he would take care of it. That was five months ago. We thought maybe Ambrose aborted his plan, but when people started getting sick and dying, we knew we couldn't waste any time. So I enrolled in Special Ops and waited for evidence to support my claim that Ambrose was responsible. That's why Coulson visited me earlier. He wants to send a team out there right away and thinks you and I are just the ones for it."

"And he knew I would be more willing to go. Revenge for my brother."

He just shrugs. "We're going to stop Ambrose. Put him behind bars and get the infected people the medicine they need. We can do it," he says.

I don't say anything, I just stare at the wall. It's a lot to take in. My chest aches for Sam and what he had to go through. I grab his hand in both of mine. We stare at our joined hands in silence.

"Evelyn," he says. I look into his eyes. He hesitates for a moment and then says, "Never mind," and looks back at our hands.

"So Coulson is your uncle, huh?" I say.

"Biologically speaking," says Sam. "I never met him until I came here."

I just nod my head and look at the wall where a clock hangs. It reads past 8:00 and suddenly I remember that the rankings were going to be posted at dinner time.

"The rankings!" I say, standing up.

"What about them?" he asks.

"I totally forgot. They were going to be posted tonight in the cafeteria at dinner."

"Oh. Did you want to go and check what they are?" he asks. I consider this, but for some reason I can't explain, I don't feel like leaving here.

"No, we can see them tomorrow."

He smiles a little bit. "Okay."

I sit back down on the couch. Cas lies on the floor in front of us. I hear a sharp intake of breath and look at Sam. He has an arm clutched around his ribs. I turn my body towards his. "Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yes." It is a tight, tense little word.

"Yeah, right. I'm gonna get you some more painkillers," I say, heading towards the kitchen. I find the meds on the counter and pour a few pills in my hand and then fill a glass of water and bring it to Sam. "Take this." He grabs the glass from my hand and then the pills, popping them in his mouth. He looks so exhausted.

"You should get some rest," I say.

"I'm fine."

"You heard Coulson. We need to get as much rest as possible, okay? I'll come by tomorrow morning and we can walk to breakfast together. Check out those rankings," I say.

"Okay," he says. I smile at him one more time and then head towards the door.

"Cas, let's go." Cas gets up and trots over to me. I glance over my shoulder at Sam one more time and then head to my dorm.


	9. Chapter 9

SAM AND I walk side by side to the cafeteria. I didn't dream last night, and for that I am thankful. I don't think I would be able to handle another vivid memory of Todd. His absence leaves an ache in my chest that refuses to leave. I wish he could be here with me, congratulating me on completing the first stage of training. I steal a glance at Sam. He looks much better rested today and looks to be feeling better too. Maybe it's just the painkillers, though.

We walk through the double doors that lead into the cafeteria. We're the last to show up for breakfast—everyone is already digging into their food. I scan the walls for the rankings and spot them on the wall opposite us. "Over there," I say, pointing at the wall.

"Let's take a look," Sam says.

We start making our way through the cafeteria, dodging tables and trash cans. Hanging stapled to the wall are two pieces of paper—one paper with Jameson's trainees, the other with John's. I take a deep breath and read the list.

Sam

Evelyn

Marcus

Caleb

Eric

Lauren

Marlene

Teresa

Eden

Hal

Emilee

I glance at Sam. He tilts his head and frowns at the list. Marcus must be furious that he ranked third, below the two people he probably hates most in the world. I look around the cafeteria for him, but I don't see him anywhere. In fact, I don't see Eric or Marlene, either. I gently nudge Sam with my elbow. "You know what this means, right?"

"We'll have to be on our guard," he says.

"That's right," I say. "If he got away with that stunt he pulled with you, he probably thinks he can get away with something again."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

I sigh. I'm not really hungry for breakfast anymore. I look around for Emilee. She's sitting in the far corner of the cafeteria all alone. I debate about talking to her but decide against it. There are some things she has to figure out on her own.

I face the list again. I'm happy with my rank—I am, but I'm not happy about having to be on my guard against one of my own. I'm competitive, but not to the point where I am willing to take out my competition. If someone is better than you, then that should give you the motivation to work harder to become better yourself. Taking out your competition is cowardly.

I am just about to suggest to Sam that maybe we lay low for a while when someone spins him around and slams him against the wall, causing him to cry out from the impact. Marcus has his arm under Sam's throat and his other arm shoving me away from him. Eric grabs hold of both my arms and jerks them behind my back. People have gathered around us by now. They offer no help; just watching for the entertainment of a possible fight. There are no adults around and even if there were, they would not break this up. We should be able to get ourselves out of any situation. That's part of the training to become an agent.

Sam struggles to get free, but Marcus just punches him in the ribs. Sam cries out and crumples to the floor. I struggle harder against Eric's arms but it's no use—he's too strong for me. Sam kneels on one knee, gasping. An arm clutched around his middle.

"You," says Marcus, focusing his narrowed eyes on me. "You are going to pay for this."

I expect him to lunge at me, or hit me, but he just turns on his heel and stalks out of the cafeteria, and that is worse. If he had exploded, his anger would have been spent quickly, after a punch or two. Leaving means he wants to plan something. Leaving means I most definitely have to be on my guard.

Eric releases me and I fall on my hands and knees. The gathering crowd begins to scatter apart from a few of my friends who were still in the cafeteria. They rush forward to help me but I just wave them off. "I'm fine," I say. "Just go." And they do. Emilee stands farther away watching us. I crawl over to Sam and help him to his feet.

"I'm fine," he says through clenched teeth.

"So much for being on our guard," I say.

"Bastards," mutters Sam. He takes a step forward and stumbles. I reach my hand out and steady him before he can fall.

"We just have to survive four weeks," I say.

"A lot can happen in four weeks, Evelyn," he says.

"Don't I know it. How do you feel?"

"I'll live," he says. He brushes himself off. "I'm resilient like that."

"I don't doubt you are," I say.

"I would hope not." He gives me a sly grin and a wink before he walks away. I can't but help laugh at that. An unexpected warmth rushes through me but I shake it away. Whatever Marcus and his minions are planning, I need to be one step ahead of them. I'm not sure how far Marcus is willing to go. I definitely do not underestimate his abilities. Something about him just screams 'unstable' to me. And unstable people are dangerous people.

I catch Emilee's eye as I turn around but she walks off before I can say anything. Now that I have a few weeks before training resumes, I can do anything I want. I frown. When I looked out my bedroom window before coming here I caught sight of the torrential downpour happening outside—which means no outdoor activities. I debate on sleeping all day or shooting. Sleep wins.

I don't fully understand why Marcus is so angered by his rank. The only real purpose of the ranking system is the order in which you are most likely to get called out on a mission. Usually, one to three people get called out at a time. Not like Marcus would be missing out on much. Then it occurs to me that he just doesn't like being the one who doesn't come out on top. I snort. Sounds like a personal problem to me.

By the time I make it back to my dorm my appetite for breakfast has come back. I dig around in my kitchen for some food but find nothing. I still haven't gone grocery shopping. I plop down on my couch—where I've taken to sleeping these last few nights—and turn on the TV. I flip through the channels until I get to the news station. Sure enough, new reports on the plaque disease have come in. It's claimed its youngest victim so far—a five year old girl who lives in the outlying cities with her family. I shake my head.

_I'm coming for you, Ambrose_, I think. _Watch your back_.


	10. Chapter 10

THE NEXT THREE weeks pass by without incident. I haven't seen much of Marcus or Eric around and it makes me uneasy. I just pray that the second stage of their training is keeping them busy enough to ignore me. At least for now, anyways. I make my way along the dark hallway of the dormitories with light footsteps. It's well past ten o'clock and while surely everyone is asleep right now, I'd rather not be questioned as to why I am sneaking to Sam's room right now.

I reach his door and quietly knock three times. Not a few seconds later the door opens. I smile at Sam and walk inside. He closes the door behind us and joins me in the living area. He looks much better than he did in the days after his fight with Marcus—better rested and moves with more ease. Which is good because we start our new training regimen next week.

I glance around the room. On his kitchen table lays a big hunk of cheese with four butter knives carefully strewn around it.

"Well, I'm here. Which means I accept your challenge," I say.

Sam smiles and grabs the knives off the table, handing two of them to me.

Earlier today we were in the knife throwing room doing target practice when I challenged Sam to hit the red center three times in a row. He complied and was successful. He then challenged me to a knife throwing contest. But instead of the knives we use in the training room and the normal plywood boards used as targets, we would use butter knives and a hunk of cheese. I'm not sure where he gets these ideas. He told me to come by his room at ten if I accepted his challenge. Well, here I am.

"Let's mix it up a little," I say.

"Oh?" he says. "How so?"

"You have to throw the knives while sitting down."

He seems to think about this a moment and then says, "You're on." We each hold two butter knives in our hands and take a seat on the floor; the hunk of cheese positioned on the center of the kitchen table. I go first. My first knife lodges in the upper corner of the cheese and my second knife hits the cheese but doesn't stick far enough in so it falls on the table.

"You're turn," I say, shaking my head.

He sits with one leg stretched out and hurls the butter knife at the cheese. It sticks, handle out, dead center of the large cheese hunk. I stand up and stare in disbelief, first at the cheese and then at him.

"Tell me you're some kind of prodigy," I say.

He looks so relaxed, his head back, his arm slung over his knee. We stare at each other for a few more seconds before he replies, "Nah, just lots of practice."

I give him a half smile and sit down next to him, again.

"Sam," I say.

"Evelyn," he says.

I roll my eyes. "Have you seen the aerial tram, yet?"

"You mean that swaying car-commuter thing five hundred feet off the ground? Yeah, no thank you," he says.

"Oh, come on," I say. "It's the perfect and safest way for you to confront your fear of heights. I think the correct term is _acrophobia_."

"Why would I sit in that contraption for no reason?" he scoffs.

I lift a shoulder. "Suit yourself!"

"Thank you, I think I will."

I laugh and lean back on the floor, staring at the ceiling. I've been apprehensive about the mission, lately. The more I think about it, the more suspicious I've become. Something seems off to me but I just can't put my finger on it. I wonder if Sam has any doubts as well. I look at Sam. He's laying on his back, staring at the ceiling, too. He looks thoughtful. His hair is a bit longer than it was when he first arrived here. I'm still having trouble discerning what his hair color is. I'm just going to go with brown.

We lay in silence for a long time. Neither of us say a word; we just stare at the empty ceiling. After a while my eyes begin to feel heavy. I should really get up and go back to my own dorm, but I can't seem to muster the energy to do so.

"What are you thinking about?" I whisper to him.

He takes a while to respond. I'm beginning to think he didn't hear me, but then he finally whispers back, "My family."

I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him. He meets my eyes. They look distant and sad; just how I assume mine look when I think of my brother.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask.

"No," he shakes his head. "There's really nothing to say."

I nod and lay back down. There isn't any need to push the subject. I can't even begin to fathom what it must have been like to watch your parents die so you could live. To have your only family taken away from you. At least my brother wasn't murdered and my parents are still alive. But that's not true now, is it? If the speculation around Ambrose is true, then Todd was indeed murdered.

Still, my chest aches for Sam and what he had to go through. That's more than any seventeen year old should have to bear.

I look at Sam. I want to say something, say anything that would make him feel better, but nothing comes to mind. Instead, I decide on comforting him silently. I grab his hand and hold it in my own. He gently squeezes my hand.

Sometimes it's not saying anything that says more than if you had spoken.


	11. Chapter 11

"I NEVER THOUGHT my muscles could be this sore!" says Emilee, rubbing her arms. "I'm not sure I can keep this up."

"Course you can," I say. "You're tough as nails, remember?"

"Yeah, whatever," she says, rolling her eyes.

We're standing on the roof of Mission Headquarters. And while the day was sunny, winter is approaching and a constant breeze makes it necessary to wear a jacket. In the distance I can see the Hawthorne Bridge and the calm waters of the Willamette River below it. In just four days I begin preparing for the mission. I've been restless the last couple days which have led to my exploring of the entire Mission Headquarters, which ultimately led me to the roof. I'm not sure why I've never been up here before. The view of the city is breathtaking.

"I can't believe you've already been appointed a mission," says Emilee.

I raise my eyebrows at her. I wasn't aware this was public knowledge. I guess that's what happens when you having nothing to do for four weeks—you stop paying attention to what's going on around you. Or, at least, I do.

"Yeah, me either," I say. I haven't been sleeping well at night the last few days. I can't decide if it's my anxiety over the weeks to come or if I just have a bad case of insomnia.

We stand in silence as the sun begins to descend below the horizon, signaling the end of the day. A few twinkling stars can be seen in the darkening sky. I want to hold on to the feeling of peacefulness that washes over me; even if it's only temporary.

The sun is just disappearing below the horizon when Emilee speaks. "I think I'll turn in for the night. Might as well get as much rest as possible. I hear Jameson has something big planned for us tomorrow."

I smile. "You'll have to tell me all about it."

"I'm sure I'll have a lot to say," she says. "Goodnight, Evelyn."

"Goodnight." And then she's gone. Leaving me alone on the rooftop. I should go inside and try to sleep myself, but I don't think sleeping is a possibility with me right now. Too many conflicting emotions rise inside me when I think of the Plaque disease. I can't shake the feeling that I'm missing some crucial piece to the story.

Minutes or hours pass and soon I'm shivering in the dark. I pick my way carefully across the roof; careful not to slip on the loose gravel. I reach the door and push it open. I feel around the wall for a light switch but I can't find one. I keep my hands pressed against the wall as I make my way down the stairs step by step until I finally reach the door at the bottom. Someone should really put a light bulb in here.

Finally back into the safety of light, I quietly make my way back to my dorm. I can feel the exhaustion creeping its way into my body. Maybe I'll manage to catch a few hours of sleep tonight.

When I get to my door, I can see that it's open a crack. I cautiously open the door and whistle for Cas. He comes bounding towards the door. I walk inside and shut the door behind me. All the lights are off. I stand still and listen for anything that might give away the presence of another person, but I hear nothing. Maybe I just didn't shut the door all the way when I left this afternoon. I've done it before, after all.

I kick off my shoes and collapse on the couch, not even bothering to change out of my clothes. I shift around until I find a comfortable position and then close my eyes and attempt to cease any and all thinking. It doesn't seem to be working.

After at least a half hour of racing thoughts, I roll onto my back and open my eyes. I get off the couch to get a drink of water. I'm not thirsty, but I need to do something. I decide on the water fountain outside in the hallway. The filter in my fridge is broken and the water from the kitchen sink tastes weird. I open my door and step outside. My bare feet make sticky sounds on the floor as I walk, my hand skimming the wall to keep my path straight. A bulb glows blue above the drinking fountain.

I tug my hair over one shoulder and bend over. As soon as the water touches my lips, I hear voices at the end of the hallway. I creep closer to them, trusting the dark to keep me hidden.

"So far there haven't been any signs of it." Jameson's voice. Signs of what?

"Well, you wouldn't have seen much of it yet," someone replies. A male voice; cold and familiar, but familiar like a dream, not a real person. "Symptoms of the Plaque can take up to seventy-two hours before they begin to show themselves, so we will have to wait before we can be sure."

The mention of the Plaque makes me go cold. I lean forward, my back pressed against the wall, to see who the familiar voice belongs to.

"Don't forget the reason I had Coulson appoint you," the voice says. "Your first priority is always making sure no one finds out. Always."

"I won't forget."

I shift a few inches forward, hoping I am still hidden. Whoever that voice belongs to, he knows something about the Plaque that I do not. I tilt my head forward, straining to see them before they turn the corner.

Then someone grabs me from behind.

I start to scream, but a hand claps over my mouth. It smells like soap and it's big enough to cover the lower half of my face. I thrash, but the arms holding me are too strong, and I bite down on one of the fingers.

"Ow!" a rough voice says.

"Shut up and keep her mouth covered." That voice is higher than the average male's and clearer. Marcus.

A strip of dark cloth covers my eyes, and a new pair of hands ties it at the back of my head. I struggle to breath. There are at least two hands on my arms, dragging me forward, and one on my back, shoving me in the same direction, and one on my mouth, keeping my screams in. Three people. My chest hurts. I can't resist three people on my own.

"Wonder what it sounds like when she begs for mercy," Marcus says with a chuckle. "Hurry up."

I try to focus on the hand on my mouth. There must be something distinct about it that will make him easier to identify. His identity is a problem I can solve. I need to solve a problem right now, or I will panic.

The palm is sweaty and soft. I clench my teeth and breathe through my nose. The soap smell is familiar. Lemongrass and sage. The same smell surrounds Hal. A weight drops in my stomach.

I hear a door creek open and feel a cool breeze blow on my face. We are at the stairs that lead to the roof. They shove me forward and we begin to climb the steps. I press my lips together to keep from screaming. If we are going to the roof, I know what they intend to do to me.

They open the door at the top and push me into the cool night air, shoving me forward.

"Lift her up, c'mon."

I thrash, and their rough skin grates against mine, but I know it's useless. I scream too, knowing that no one can hear me here.

I will survive until tomorrow. I will.

The hands push me around and up and slam my spine onto something hard and cold. Judging by its width and curvature, it is the stone wall. It is _the _stone wall, the one that surrounds the roof and overlooks the city. My breaths wheeze and cold air touches the back of my neck. The hands force my back to arch over the wall. My feet leave the ground, and my attackers are the only thing keeping me from falling onto the pavement below.

A heavy hand gropes along my chest. "You sure you're seventeen? Doesn't feel like you're more than fourteen." The other boys laugh.

Bile rises in my throat and I swallow the bitter taste.

"Wait, I think I found something!" His hand squeezes me. I bite my tongue to keep from screaming. More laughter.

Hal's hand slips from my mouth. "Stop that," he snaps. I recognize his low, distinct voice.

When Hal lets go of me, I thrash again and slip down to the ground. This time, I bite down hard as I can on the first arm I find. I hear a scream and clench my jaw harder, tasting blood. Something hard strikes my face. White heat races through my head. It would have been pain if adrenaline wasn't coursing through me like acid.

The boy wrenches his trapped arm away from me and throws me to the ground. I bang my elbow against the stone and bring my hands up to my head to remove the blindfold. A foot drives into my side, forcing the air from my lungs. I gasp and cough and claw at the back of my head. Someone grabs a handful of my hair and slams my head against something hard. A scream of pain bursts from my mouth, and I feel dizzy.

Clumsily, I fumble along the side of my head to find the edge of the blindfold. I drag my heavy hand up, taking the blindfold with it, and blink. The scene before me is sideways and bobs up and down. I see someone running toward us and someone running away—someone large, Hal. I grab the stone wall next to me and haul myself to my feet.

Marcus wraps his hand around my throat and lifts me up, his thumb wedged under my chin. His hair, which is usually shiny and smooth, is tousled and sticks to his forehead. His pale face is contorted and his teeth are gritted, and he holds me over the wall as spots appear on the edges of my vision, crowding around his face, green and pink and blue. He says nothing. I try to kick him, but my legs are too week. My lungs scream for air.

I hear a shout, and he releases me.

I stretch out my arms as I fall, gasping, and my armpits slam into the wall. I hook my elbows over it and groan. The world dips and sways around me, and someone is on the roof floor—Eric—screaming. I hear thumps, kicks, groans.

I blink a few times and focus as hard as I can on the only face I can see. It is contorted with anger. His eyes are blue-gray.

"Sam," I croak.

I close my eyes, and hands wrap around my arms, right where they join with the shoulder. He pulls me over the wall and against his chest, gathering me into his arms, easing an arm under my knees. I press my face into his shoulder, and there is a sudden, hollow silence.


	12. Chapter 12

I OPEN MY eyes to a plain white wall. I hear the sounds of running water coming from a faucet. Seconds go by before I see definite edges in my surroundings, the lines of door frame and countertop and ceiling.

The pain is a constant throb in my head and cheek and ribs. I shouldn't move; it will make everything worse. I see a blue patchwork quilt under my head and wince as I tilt my head to see where the water sound is coming from.

Sam stands in the kitchen with his hands in the sink. Blood from his knuckles turns the sink water pink. He has a bruise on his jaw, but he seems otherwise unharmed. His expression is placid as he examines his cuts, turns off the water, and dries his hands with a towel.

I have only one memory of getting here, and even that is just a single image: black ink curling around the side of a neck, the corner of a tattoo, and the gentle sway that could only mean he was carrying me.

He turns off the kitchen light and gets an ice pack from the refrigerator. As he walks toward me, I consider closing my eyes and pretending to be asleep, but then our eyes meet and it's too late.

"Your hands," I croak.

"My hands are none of your concern," he replies. He rests his knees on the couch and leans over me, slipping the ice pack under my head. Before he pulls away, I reach out to touch the bruise on his jaw but stop when I realize what I am about to do, my hand hovering.

_What do you have to lose?_ I ask myself. I touch my fingertips lightly to his face.

"Evelyn," he says, speaking against my fingers, "I'm all right."

"Why were you there?" I ask, letting my hand drop.

"I was coming back from a walk. I heard a scream."

"What did you do to them?" I say.

"I deposited Eric at the infirmary a half hour ago," he says. "Marcus and Hal ran. Eric claimed they were just trying to scare you. At least, I think that's what he was trying to say."

"He's in bad shape?"

"He'll live," he replies. He adds bitterly, "In what condition, I can't say."

It isn't right to wish pain on other people just because they hurt me first. But white-hot triumph races through me at the thought of Eric in the infirmary, and I squeeze Sam's arm.

"Good," I say. My voice sounds tight and fierce. Anger builds inside me, replacing my blood with bitter water and filling me, consuming me. I want to break something, or hit something, but I am afraid to move, so I start crying instead.

Sam crouches by the side of the couch, and watches me. I see no sympathy in his eyes. I would have been disappointed if I had. He pulls his wrist free, his thumb skimming my cheekbone. His fingers are careful.

"I could report this," he says.

"No," I reply. "I don't want them to think I'm scared."

He nods. He moves his thumb absently over my cheekbone, back and forth. "I figured you would say that."

"You think it would be a bad idea if I sat up?"

"I'll help you."

Sam grips my shoulder with one hand and holds my head steady with the other as I push myself up. Pain rushes through my body in sharp bursts, but I try to ignore it, stifling a groan.

He hands me the ice pack. "You can let yourself be in pain," he says. "It's just me here."

I bite down on my lip. There are tears on my face, but neither of us mentions or even acknowledges them.

I feel Hal's hand against my mouth again, and a sob jolts my body forward. I press my hand to my forehead and rock slowly back and forth. "Hal . . .," I say.

"He hurt you because your strength made him feel week. No other reason," Sam says softly.

I nod and try to believe him.

"The others won't be as jealous if you show some vulnerability. Even if it isn't real."

"You think I have to _pretend_ to be vulnerable?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, I do." He takes the ice pack from me, his fingers brushing mine, and holds it against my head himself. I put my hand down, too eager to relax my arm to object. Sam stands up. I stare at the hem of his T-shirt.

Sometimes I see him as just my friend, sometimes I feel the sight of him in my gut, like a deep ache.

"You're going to want to march into breakfast tomorrow and show your attackers they had no effect on you," he adds, "but you should let that bruise on your cheek show, and keep your head down."

The idea nauseates me.

"I don't think I can do that," I say hollowly. I lift my eyes to his.

"You have to."

"I don't think you _get_ it." Heat rises into my face. "They touched me."

His entire body tightens at my words, his hand clenches around the ice pack. "Touched you," he repeats, his eyes cold.

"Not . . . in the way you're thinking." I clear my throat. I didn't realize when I said it how awkward it would be to talk about. "But . . . almost."

I look away.

He is silent and still for so long that eventually, I have to say something.

"What is it?"

"I don't want to say this," he says, "but I feel like I have to. It is more important for you to be safe than right, for the time being. Understand?"

His straight eyebrows are drawn low over his yes. My stomach writhes, partly because I know he makes a good point but I don't want to admit it, and partly because I want something I don't know how to express; I want to press against the space between us until it disappears.

I nod.

"But please, when you see an opportunity . . . ." He presses his hand to my cheek, cold and strong, and tilts my head up so I have to look at him. His eyes glint. They look almost predatory. "Ruin them."


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:**

**I just wanted to thank everyone who has reviewed my story! Means so much to me! Enjoy the next chapter!**

* * *

I DON'T GO back to my dorm that night. Sam sleeps on the floor and I sleep on his bed, on top of his bedding, breathing in the scent of his pillowcase. It smells like detergent and something heavy, sweet, and distinctly male.

The rhythm of his breaths slows, and I prop myself up to see if he is asleep. He lies on his stomach with one arm around his head. His eyes are closed, and his lips parted. For the first time, he looks as young as he is, and I wonder who he was back in Chicago. Who he was when his parents weren't murdered, isn't an trainee, isn't anything in particular?

Whoever he is, I like him. It's easier for me to admit that to myself now, in the dark, after all that just happened. He is smart and brave, and even though he saved me, he treated me like I was strong. That is all I need to know.

I watch the muscles in his back expand and contract until I fall asleep.

I wake to aches and pains. I cringe as I sit up, holding my ribs, and walk up to the small mirror on the opposite wall. As expected, there is a dark blue bruise on my cheek. I hate the idea of slumping into the cafeteria like this, but Sam's instructions have stayed with me.

I tie up my hair in a knot at the back of my head. The door opens and Sam walks in, a towel in hand and his hair glistening with shower water. I feel a thrill in my stomach when I see the line of skin that shows above his belt as he lifts his hand to dry his hair and force my eyes up to his face.

"Hey," I say. My voice sounds tight. I wish it didn't.

He touches my bruised cheek with just his fingertips. "Not bad," he says. "How's your head?"

"Fine," I say. I'm lying—my head is throbbing. I brush my fingers over the bump, and pain prickles over my scalp. It could be worse. I could dead on the pavement below the roof.

Every muscle in my body tightens as his hand drops to my side, where I got kicked. He does it casually, but I can't move.

"And your side?" he asks, his voice low.

"Only hurts when I breathe."

He smiles. "Not much you can do about that."

"Marcus would probably throw a party if I stopped breathing.

"Well," he says, "I would only go if there was cake."

I laugh, and then wince, covering his hand to steady my rib cage. He slides his hand back slowly, his fingertips grazing my side. When his fingers lift, I feel an ache in my chest. Once this moment ends, I have to remember what happened last night. And I want to stay here with him.

He nods a little and leads the way out.

Yesterday he told me he thought I would have to pretend to be weak, but he was wrong. I am weak already. I brace myself against the wall and press my forehead to my hands. It's difficult to take deep breaths, so I take short, shallow ones. I can't let this happen. They attacked me to make me feel weak. I can pretend they succeeded to protect myself, but I can't let it become true. I pull away from the wall and follow Sam.

We walk through the doors that lead into the cafeteria. Sam glances at me and then heads off into a different direction. He's telling me I should sit with my friends. A few steps in, I remember I'm supposed to look like I'm cowering, so I slow my pace and hug the wall, keeping my head down. Arthur, at the table next to Lauren and Teresa's, lifts his hand to wave at me. And then puts it down.

I sit next to Lauren.

Hal isn't there—he isn't anywhere.

Arthur slides into the seat next to me, leaving his half-eaten muffin and half-finished glass of water on the other table. For a second, all three of them just stare at me.

"What happened" Lauren asks, lowering her voice.

I look over her shoulder at the table behind ours. Marcus sits there, eating a piece of toast and whispering something to Marlene. My hand clenches around the edge of the table. I want him to hurt. But now isn't the time.

Eric is missing, which means he's still in the infirmary. Vicious pleasure courses through me at the thought.

"Marcus, Eric . . . ," I say quietly. I hold my side as I reach out across the table for a piece of toast. It hurts to stretch out my hand, so I let myself wince and hunch over. "And . . ." I swallow. "And Hal."

"Oh God," says Teresa, her eyes wide.

"Are you all right?" Arthur asks.

Marcus's eyes find mine across the dining hall, and I have to force myself to look away. It brings a bitter taste to my mouth to show him that he scares me, but I have to. Sam was right. I have to do everything I can to make sure I don't get attacked again.

"Not really," I say.

My eyes burn, and it's not artifice, unlike the wincing. I shrug. Marcus, Eric, and Hal were ready to throw me off of the roof out of jealousy—what is so unbelievable about them willing to commit murder?

I feel uncomfortable, like I'm wearing someone else's skin. If I'm not careful, I could die.

"But you're just . . ." Arthur purses his lips. "It isn't fair. Three against one?"

"Yeah, and Marcus is all about what's fair. That's why he grabbed Caleb in his sleep and stabbed him in the eye," says Teresa.

"_What?_" I say.

"You didn't hear?" she asks.

I shake my head. "It was gruesome," she says. She snorts and shakes her head. "Hal, though? Are you sure, Evelyn?"

I stare at my plate. How could I not hear about Caleb's misfortunate confrontation with Marcus? Have I been that oblivious to what's going on? I was the next Caleb. But unlike him, I'm not going to leave.

"Yeah," I say. "I'm sure."

"It has to be desperation," says Lauren. "He's been acting . . . I don't know. Like a different person. Ever since stage two started."

If I had paid better attention to my friends, could I have helped Hal?

Then Eric shuffles into the dining hall. I drop my toast, my mouth drifts open.

Calling him "bruised" would be an understatement. His face is swollen and purple. He has a split lip and a cut running through his eyebrow. He keeps his eyes down on the way to his table, not even lifting them to look at me. I glance across the room at Sam. He wears the satisfied smile I wish I had on.

"Did _you _do that?" hisses Lauren.

I shake my head. "No. Someone—I never saw who it was—found me right before . . ." I gulp. Saying it out loud makes it worse, makes it real. ". . . I got tossed off the roof."

"They were going to _kill_ you?" says Teresa in a low voice.

"Maybe. They might have been planning on dangling me over it just to scare me." I lift a shoulder. "It worked."

Teresa gives me a sad look. Lauren just glares at the table.

"We have to do something about this," Arthur says in a low voice.

"What, like beat them up?" Teresa grins. "Looks like that's been taken care of already."

"No. That's pain the can get over," replies Arthur. "We have to edge them out of the rankings. That will damage their futures. Permanently."

Across the room I see Jameson and John get up and stand between the tables. Conversation abruptly ceases.

"We're doing something different today," says Jameson. "Follow me."

This must be the surprise Emilee was telling me about. Arthur, Lauren, and Teresa all stand. Arthur's forehead wrinkles. "Be careful," he tells me.

"Don't worry," I say, smiling at him.

Once everyone has left the cafeteria, Sam walks over and sits across from me.

"That was painful," I say, rubbing a hand over my forehead.

"It was necessary," he says.

"I know, I know." I look around the empty cafeteria. I suddenly become aware of the ache in my ribs and the exhaustion that has taken over my body. I managed to catch a few hours of sleep last night, but I woke up several times from nightmares—the Plaque, getting attacked, falling off the roof, my brother. I woke up sweating and panting. I want nothing more than to sleep.

"You look like you're about to pass out," Sam says. "How about we get you back to your dorm?"

"I'd like that," I say.

I stand up and start walking towards the exit. Sam places a hand on the small of my back and follows me out. We reach the stairwell and climb the stairs. Each step sends a sharp pain through my side. How Sam managed to do this with eight broken ribs is beyond me.

When we get to my dorm, Sam takes my key and unlocks the door for me. He follows me inside, shutting the door behind him. Cas leaps off the couch and almost tackles me. The poor guy must have been worried. I quickly feed him his breakfast and then make my way to the bedroom. Sam stands behind me. I suddenly don't want to be alone. I fear the nightmares I know will come when I close my eyes.

"Do you need anything?" Sam asks.

"Actually, could you stay here . . . with me? Until I fall asleep?" I say.

He nods his head.

I crawl across my bed and lay down. Sam sits in the empty space next to me. We sit in silence for a long time. I can feel the sleep pulling at me but every time I close my eyes, images from when I was attacked play in my mind. It must have had a greater effect on me than I previously thought.

I don't mean to cry—now is not a good time to cry; no, it has to stop—but I can't get the tears out of my eyes, no matter how many times I blink. Sam sees them and gently wipes a tear from my cheek.

"Sorry," I say.

He says almost sternly, "Don't apologize." He brushes more tears from my cheeks.

"The nightmares come every time I close my eyes," I say quietly. "I just can't get over it. There were going to kill me. And Marcus and his gross hands touching me, and Hal . . . and . . . ." A tiny sob escapes me.

Sam lies down on his side, facing me. He places a hand on my cheek, his thumb absently moving back and forth across my cheek.

"I don't mean to be such a mess," I say, my voice cracking. "I just feel so . . . ." I shake my head.

"It's wrong," he says. "It shouldn't have happened. It shouldn't have happened to you. And anyone who tells you it's okay is a liar."

A sob racks my body again, and he wraps his arms around me so tightly I find it difficult to breathe, but it doesn't matter. My dignified weeping gives way to full-on ugliness, my mouth open and my face contorted and sounds like a dying animal coming from my throat. All the emotions I've stored inside of me for the past few months break free. If this continues I will break apart, and maybe that would be better, maybe it would be better to shatter and bear nothing.

He doesn't speak for a long time, until I am quiet again.

"Sleep," he says. "I'll fight the bad dreams off if they come to get you." He tucks my hair behind my ear.

"With what?"

"My bare hands, obviously."

I wrap my arm around his waist and take a deep breath of his shoulder. He smells like fresh air. He smells safe, too, like sunlit walks in the rose gardens and silent breakfasts in the dining hall. I'm not sure what this feeling inside of me is, but I like it. And I don't want him to leave and he doesn't. I close my eyes, succumbing to sleep. His hand brushes the loose strands of my hair off my forehead. I don't want him to stop and he doesn't.

I can feel myself slipping away, so I just get out one more sentence. "Stay with me."

As the tendrils of sleep pull me down, I hear him whisper a word back, but I'm already too far gone to catch it.


	14. Chapter 14

WHEN I AWAKE later in the afternoon, Sam is gone. I slowly lift myself into a sitting position. While my entire body is sore with aches, I feel better rested than I have in a while. I rub my eyes and look around. The room is dark with just a little light peeking out from under a window. Cas lies on the floor next to the bed. I slip off the bed and put on some shoes.

Emilee stands outside my door, frozen in the middle of a knock.

"Oh, Evelyn!" she says, throwing her arms around my neck.

I stand there with my arms at my sides while she hugs me. "What's wrong?" I ask, my voice muffled by her hug.

"_You're _asking _me_ what's wrong?" she says.

"Well, yeah," I say, confused.

"_I _ wasn't the one who was attacked! I can't believe they did that to you!"

_Oh,_ I think. Of course. She wasn't in the cafeteria this morning. She probably heard what happened from Lauren and Teresa.

I pull her inside and shut the door and sit on the couch. Worry is written all over her face.

"I'm fine," I say.

She raises her eyebrow at me.

"Really, Emilee. I'm okay."

She shakes her head. "I'm just glad you're still alive."

"Me too," I agree. I tell her the same thing I told the others this morning. She almost doesn't believe me when I tell her Hal was involved. I don't blame her. She said he wasn't on the field trip Jameson and John took everyone on and no one has seen him since yesterday. I desperately want to change the subject.

"Do you want to go shoot things?" I ask.

"You know I'm not a good shot," she says.

"All the more reason to, well, shoot things," I say.

She sets her mouth in a hard line. "Fine," she finally says.

"Great!" I clap my hands together and stand up. "Let's have Arthur and Lauren join us too."

We walk out of my dorm and down the stairs. I peek into the cafeteria and spot Lauren. I wave her over. I would invite Teresa, but she looks pretty occupied talking to another boy. We search for Arthur and convince him to join us.

As we make our way to the target room, I keep my eyes out for Sam but I don't see him anywhere.

I turn the lights in the shooting range on. Targets line the opposite wall and guns lie on the table in front of us. We each slip on some eyewear and load our guns.

"Bet you ten bucks you can't hit the bulls-eye," Arthur says teasingly. I remember that he's never seen me shoot before. Emilee and Lauren exchange a knowing smile.

"You're on," I say.

I stand with my feet shoulder width apart, my hips at a forty-five degree angle to the target. I lift the gun in front of my with my right hand and cup my left hand under my right, my index finger hovering over the trigger. I breathe in through my nose and aim. I squeeze the trigger. On my exhale, I fire. A small hole appears in the heart of the bulls-eye. I smirk at Arthur. He whistles and pulls ten dollars from his pocket. I pocket the money.

"You're turn," I say.

Arthur aims the gun at his target and fires. A hole appears just to the right of the bulls-eye.

We each shoot five rounds. I definitely feel awake now. I notice that Emilee hit somewhere on her target every single shot. She's improving—whether she realizes it or not.

"I don't know about you guys but I'm starving," says Lauren. "Let's go eat."

No one objects. We exit the room and walk towards the cafeteria. Lauren and Arthur walk together ahead of Emilee and me. I find myself thinking they would be a good couple.

When we walk into the cafeteria, Hal is there.

Arthur stands behind me and holds my shoulders—lightly, as if to remind me that he's there. Lauren and Emilee edge closer to me.

Hal's eyes have shadows beneath them, and his face is swollen from crying. Pain stabs my stomach when I see him. I can't move. The scent of lemongrass and sage, once pleasant, turns sour in my nose.

"Evelyn," says Hal, his voice breaking. "Can I talk to you?"

"Are you kidding?" Arthur squeezes my shoulders. "You don't get to come near her ever again."

"I won't hurt you. I never wanted to . . . ." Hal covers his face with both hands. "I just want to say that I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I don't . . . I don't know what's wrong with me, I . . . please forgive me, _please _. . . ."

He reaches for me like he's going to touch my shoulder, or my hand, his face wet with tears.

Somewhere inside me is a merciful, forgiving person. Somewhere there is a girl who tries to understand what people are going through, who accepts that people do evil things that desperation leads them to darker places than they ever imagined. I swear she exists, and she hurts for the repentant boy I see in front of me.

But if I saw her, I wouldn't recognize her.

"Stay away from me," I say quietly. My body feels rigid and cold, and I am not angry. I am not hurt, I am nothing. I say, my voice low, "Never come near me again."

Our eyes meet. His are dark and glassy. I am nothing.

"If you do, I swear to God that I will kill you," I say. "You coward."


	15. Chapter 15

"EVELYN."

In my dream, my brother says my name. He beckons to me, and I cross the kitchen and stand beside him. He points to the pot on the stove, and I lift the lid to peek inside. The beady eye of a crow stares back at me, its wing feathers pressed to the side of the pot, its fat body covered with boiling water.

"Dinner," he says.

"Evelyn!" I hear again. I open my eyes. Emilee stands next to my bed, her cheeks streaked with mascara-tinted tears.

"It's Hal," she says. "Come on."

Emilee grabs my hand and pulls me out of my dorm. I run barefoot over the stone floor, blinking clouds from my eyes, my limbs still heavy with sleep. Something terrible has happened. I feel it with every thump of my hear. _It's Hal._

We run across the foyer, and to the stairs that lead to the roof. Emilee opens the door and runs up the stairs. I follow her, pressing my hands to the wall to feel my way. A crowd has gathered around the ledge, but everyone stands a few feet from one another, so there is enough space for me to maneuver past Emilee and around a tall, middle aged man to the front.

Two men stand next to the ledge, hoisting something up with ropes. They both grunt from the effort, heaving their weight back so the ropes slide over the wall, and then reaching forward to grab again. A huge, dark shape appears above the ledge, and a few agents rush forward to help the two men haul it over.

The shape falls with a thud on the roof floor. A pale, twisted arm flops onto the gravel. A body. Emilee pulls herself tight to my side, clinging to my arm. She turns her head into my shoulder and sobs, but I can't look away. A few of the men turn the body over, and the head flops to the side.

The eyes are open and empty. Dark. Doll's eyes. And the nose has a high arch, a narrow bridge, a round tip. The face itself is something other than human, half corpse and half creature. My lungs burn; my next breath rattles on the way in. _Hal._

"One of the trainees," says someone behind me. "What happened?"

"Same thing that happens every year," someone else replies. "He pitched himself over the ledge."

"Don't be so morbid. Could have been an accident."

Emilee's hands get tighter and tighter around my arm. I should tell her to let go of me; it's starting to hurt. Someone kneels next to Hal's face and pushes the eyelids shut. Trying to make it look like he's sleeping, maybe. Stupid. Why do people want to pretend that death is sleep? It isn't. It isn't.

Something inside me collapses. My chest is so tight, suffocating, can't breathe. I sink to the ground, dragging Emilee down with me. The gravel is rough under my knees. Still can't breathe. I press both palms to my chest and rock back and forth to free the tension in my chest.

I wheeze. Someone has brought a large black bag to put the body in. I can tell it will be too small. A laugh rises in my throat and flops from my mouth, strained and gurgling. Hal's too big for the body bag; what a tragedy. Halfway through the laugh, I clamp my mouth shut, and it sounds more like a groan. I pull my arm free and stand, leaving Emilee on the ground. I run.

"Here you go," Lynn says. She hands me a steaming mug that smells like peppermint. I hold it with both hands, my fingers prickling with warmth.

She sits down across from me. When it comes to funerals, no time is wasted. Lynn says we should acknowledge death as soon as it happens. There are no people in the front room of the tattoo parlor, but Pioneer Square is crawling with people, most of them drunk. I don't know why that surprises me.

Last time I attended a funeral it was my brother's.

"Drink it," she says. "It will make you feel better. I promise."

"I don't think tea is the solution," I say slowly. But I sip it anyway. It warms my mouth and my throat and trickles into my stomach. I didn't realize how deeply cold I was until I wasn't anymore.

"'Better' is the word I used. Not 'good'". She smiles at me, but the corners of her eyes don't crinkle like they usually do. "I don't think 'good' will happen for a while." She checks her watch. "Time to go."

I pour the rest of my tea down the sink. When I lift my hand from the mug, I realize that I'm shaking. Not good. My hands usually shake before I start to cry, and I can't cry in front of everyone.

I follow Lynn out of the tattoo place and down the path to the Square. All the people that were milling around earlier are gathered by in the center now, and the air smells potently of alcohol. The woman in front of me lurches to the right, losing her balance, and then erupts into giggles as she falls against the man next to her. Lynn grabs my arm and steers me away.

I find Arthur, Lauren, and Emilee standing among the other trainees. Emilee's eyes are swollen. Arthur is holding a silver flask. He offers it to me. I shake my head.

"Quiet down, everyone!" shouts Jameson. Someone hits what sounds like a gong, and the shouts gradually stop, though the mutters don't stop. Jameson says, Thank you. As you know, we're here because Hal, a trainee, jumped off the roof of Mission Headquarters last night."

The mutters stop too, leaving just the sound of the wind rushing between the surrounding buildings.

"We don't know why," says Jameson, "and it would be easy to mourn the loss of him tonight. But we did not choose a life of ease when we became Agents. And the truth of it is . . ." Jameson smiles. If I didn't know him, I would think that smile is genuine. But I do know him. "The truth is, Hal is now exploring an unknown, uncertain place. He leaped off a roof to get there. Who among us is brave enough to venture into that darkness without knowing what lies beyond it? Hal was not yet one of us, but we can be assured that he was one of our _bravest!_"

A cry rises from the center of the crowd, and a whoop. The people cheer at varying pitches, high and low, bright and deep. Their roar mimics the roar of the wind. Emilee takes the flask from Arthur and drinks. Voices fill my ears.

"We will celebrate hi now, and remember him always!" yells Jameson. Someone hands him a dark bottle, and he lifts it. "To Hal the Courageous!"

"To Hal!" shouts the crowd. Arms lift all around me, and the Agents chant his name. "Hal! Hal! Hal!" They chant until his name is no longer sounds like his name. It sounds like the primal scream of an ancient race.

I turn away from the crowd. I cannot stand this any longer.

I don't know where I'm going. I suspect that I am not going anywhere at all, just away. I walk down the streets of Portland. I don't know how long I've been walking, but eventually I find my way to Keller Fountain. The fountain's features recall the rivers and waterfalls that form and adorn the Columbia River gorge. At the base of the fountain are platforms that seem to float. I step onto a platform.

I shake my head. Courageous? Courageous would have been admitting weakness and leaving Special Ops, no matter what shame accompanied it. Pride is what killed Hal, and it is the flaw in every Agent's heart. It is in mine.

"Evelyn."

A jolt goes through me, and I turn around. Sam stands behind me, just inside the circle of light from a street light. It gives him an eerie look, shading his eye sockets and casting shadows under his cheekbones.

"What are you doing here?" I ask. "Shouldn't you be paying your respects?

I say it like it tastes bad and I have to spit it out

"Shouldn't you?" he says. He steps toward me, and I see his eyes again. They look black in this light.

"Can't pay respect when you don't have any," I reply. I feel a twinge of guilt and shake my head. "I didn't mean that."

"Ah." Judging by the look he gives me, he doesn't believe me. I don't blame him.

"This is ridiculous," I say, heat rushing into my cheeks. "He throws himself off a roof and Jameson is calling it brave?" I taste bile. Jameson's false smiles, his artificial words, his twisted ideals—they make me want to be sick. "He wasn't brave! He was depressed and a coward and he almost killed me! Is that the kind of thing we respect here?"

"What do you want them to do?" he says. "Condemn him? Hal's already dead. He can't hear it and it's too late."

"It's not _about_ Hal," I snap. "It's about everyone watching! Everyone who now sees hurling themselves off a roof as a viable option. I mean, why not do it if everyone calls you a hero afterward? Why not do it if everyone will remember your name? I mean . . . It's . . . I can't . . ."

I shake my head. My face burns and my heart pounds, and I try to keep myself under control, but I can't. Sam steps closer to me. I set my hands on his waist. I can't remember deciding to do that. But I also can't move away. I pull myself against his chest, wrapping my arms around him. My fingers skim the muscles of his back.

After a moment, he touches the small of my back, pressing me closer, and smoothes his other hand over my hair.

"Should I be crying?" I ask, my voice muffled by his shirt. "Is there something wrong with me?"

"You think I know anything about tears?" he says quietly.

I close my eyes and press my forehead to his shoulder.

"If I had forgiven him," I say, "do you think he would be alive now?

"I don't know," he replies. He presses his hand to my cheek, and I turn my face into it, keeping my eyes closed.

"I feel like it's my fault."

"It isn't your fault," he says, touching his forehead to mine.

"But I should have forgiven him."

"Maybe. Maybe there's more we all could have done," he says, "but we just have to let the guilt remind us to do better next time."

He touches his lips to my forehead, right between my eyebrows. I close my eyes. I don't understand this, whatever it is. But I don't want to ruin it, so I say nothing. He doesn't move; he just stays there with his mouth pressed to my skin, and I stay there with my hands on his waist, for a long time.


	16. Chapter 16

I STAND IN front of Coulson's office, staring at his door. I'm supposed to walk in so we can begin plotting to overthrow Ambrose, but I can't seem to move my feet. I'm not sure what holds me back. I trust Coulson and the mission. Do I?

I hear footsteps behind me and turn around. Sam nods his head at me and stands beside me. I take a deep breath and open the door. To the left of Coulson's desk is a large, long table with eight chairs seated around it. Coulson and Jameson occupy two of those chairs—a man I do not recognize occupies a third.

"Evelyn Carter and Samuel Matthews. Please, take a seat," says Coulson. He gestures for us to sit down. I take the seat farthest from them. Sam takes the seat next to me.

"Now that everyone is here—" starts Coulson, but I interrupt him.

"This is everyone who knows about this mission?" I ask, slightly bewildered.

"Well, almost everyone. A sixth member of our party should be arriving any minute. The less people who know about this the better chance we have of it getting back to Ambrose," says Coulson. "As I was saying, we can now move ahead into developing plans to invade Ambrose's warehouses and obtain the disease and antidote. As I told you and Sam four weeks ago, we have reason to believe said warehouses are located in Sector Two."

"How did you get evidence to support that claim?" I ask. If I'm going to be a part of this mission then I will need to know all the details. Even the smallest.

"We sent a recon team to each district to scout for possible signs of the disease. While a team was in Sector Two, they encountered a small band of street kids. One of the kids claimed to have seen men working at an abandoned warehouse where trucks were constantly pulling in and out every day. The information was proved to be sound. After a few days of espionage, we were able to confirm that this warehouse was ground zero for the creation and distribution of the Plaque disease."

"Street kids, huh? Are they homeless then?" I say.

"Sector Two has been slowly falling apart over the years," says Coulson. "It's almost safe to say it's not even a Sector anymore. Filthy and poverty stricken is what it is. But yes, a group of homeless kids who have banded together. They're actually going to be a part of our plan."

"How so?" says Sam.

"Jameson, why don't you tell them who leads these group of kids," says Coulson.

Jameson stands up. "Two years ago, we had two brilliant trainees here in Sector Four." He pulls two files out of a case and passes them to Sam and me. "Cyrus Markham and Lilith Reyes. They were both well on their way to becoming top agents."

"What happened?" I ask, looking over Lilith's file. She was exceptional. Exceeded at hand-to-hand combat and sweeped any and all mental preparedness tests. She's not someone I would want to meet in a fight unprepared. Sam and I trade files. Cyrus looks to have been even deadlier.

"They . . . rebelled," says Jameson.

"Rebelled?" I say.

"Yes. They decided they'd rather go rogue and work for themselves than the Sector Four government. They broke into the arsenal barracks and stole any weapon they could get their hands on. Went on a rampage through the city—stealing cars and robbing banks. Even killed a few people. Somehow they got out of the city. Disappeared into thin air. Haven't heard or seen them. That is, until now."

"I think I remember hearing about that," I say.

"I wouldn't doubt it," he says. "The team we sent to Sector Two were able to identify Cyrus and Lilith as the alphas of their group."

"How many of them are there?" says Sam.

"It's small. Only eight or so kids. Lilith and Cyrus are the eldest. The youngest appeared to be no older than nine."

"So why are they important to the plan?" I ask.

Jameson sits down at the table again. "We're going to have you and Sam go undercover and infiltrate their group."

"What's the purpose of that?" I say. "How will that help us?"

Jameson smiles, looking smug. The rings in his lip stretch and I cringe.

"We have reason to believe Cyrus and Lilith know a thing or two about Ambrose and the disease. See, Cyrus has a little personal vendetta against Ambrose."

"Care to elaborate?" says Sam.

"Ambrose is responsible for the murder of Cyrus's parents. They were agents themselves and were killed by Ambrose's men on a mission," says Jameson.

I look at Sam. He has reason to empathize with Cyrus. Both of their parents murdered by Ambrose's command.

"What do you think Cyrus and Lilith are planning?" I ask.

Coulson is the one to answer. "We believe they will storm a shipment and try to steal doses of the disease and antidote and sell it on the streets. Which is just as—if not worse—than what Ambrose is already doing with the disease himself."

"Do they plan on doing this themselves?" I say.

"We're certain the other kids from their group will be involved," says Jameson.

"What, you think they've been training them?" says Sam.

"Yes. They're definitely capable of doing so," says Coulson.

"And you want us to get into their good graces in hopes of . . . what? Information? Location of every one of Ambrose's warehouses?" I say.

Coulson and Jameson exchange a look. I shift my eyes to the third man but he has offered no input—just sits there and listens.

"That, and we will need them compromised. Disable them from interfering. There is a warrant out for them, after all. We'll need to bring them in for questioning once you get the information you need from them," says Jameson.

"And you think Sam and I can do this all by ourselves? I have to say, that's quite a bit of faith you have in us."

"You and Sam won't be alone on this mission," says Coulson. "You'll have another member be joining you."

Sam and I exchange looks.

"Okay, who's the third person? Him?" I ask, pointing at the man sitting beside Coulson and Jameson.

"No, no. Dr. Ellicott here is our head scientist. He's here to inform you on everything we know about the disease."

"Then . . . who?" says Sam.

Coulson gets up and walks to his desk. He presses a button on his phone and says, "Send him in."

A moment later the doors click open. Sam and I turn around to get a look. I glance at Sam for a moment just in time to see his eyes go wide and his mouth fall open. I jerk my head toward the door. A young man—can't be any older than twenty-one—makes his way toward the center of the room. He's tall, with dark blonde hair cut close to his scalp. He wears the uniform agents wear out in the field. And he's _very _handsome. He almost looks like an older version of . . . Sam.

Sam stands up and says, "It's you."

"Hey Sammy," the man says.

"Evelyn, I would like you to meet Dean Matthews. The brother of Sam Matthews," says Coulson.


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note:**

**Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, Favorited, or followed the story! It means so much to me!  
**

** 265: I loved your review! Don't worry, I'm not offended! I totally get what you mean. Most of the references from the other books besides Divergent are mostly names I may have used or objects and not plots. So now that I'm getting into the mission, pretty much the rest of the story is going to be my own ideas and writing with a few exceptions of lines I might use here and there. But the story is now getting into where I wanted it to go. I'm a big fan of plot twisters so I'm going to try and include as many of those into the story as possible. I'm still writing this story down in Word, but I have it all planned out in my head :) I definitely have plans for the type of relationship Evelyn and Dean will have as well as where I will be taking Sam and Evelyn's relationship.  
**

**Well, here is chapter 17! Enjoy!  
**

* * *

THE MAN—Dean—takes another step toward us. Sam takes a step toward him. I can feel my own mouth falling open.

"Dean," Sam says

"It's good to see you, Sammy," Dean says.

Sam walks forward and embraces Dean. They hold on to each other for a few moments and then break apart. Dean sets his hands on Sam's shoulders and tears shine in both of their eyes.

"Where have you been?" asks Sam.

"Everywhere," says Dean. "I heard about Mom and Dad. I'm sorry I couldn't get to you sooner."

"I thought you were dead," Sam says.

"I hate to interrupt your reunion but we must really talk about the mission," says Coulson.

"Right," says Dean.

Sam and Dean walk to the table and take a seat. I don't even know where to begin the questions I'll have for Sam later.

"Dean, I would like you to meet our head training instructor: Jameson, our head scientist: Dr. Ellicott, and our exceptional trainee: Evelyn Carter," says Coulson.

Dean shakes hands with each of us.

"After what happened to your parents Sam, I contacted your brother and called him in to work for us. He's been helping canvas the Sectors for information regarding Ambrose and the Plaque and was with the team in Sector Two. He'll be very helpful on filling you and Evelyn in on the street kids and the warehouses," explains Coulson.

"Why didn't you tell me?" says Sam, confused.

"We thought it better if you not know," says Coulson.

I try to reason why it would be better that Sam think Dean was dead, but I can't think of any.

"You let me believe my entire family was dead? For months?" Sam says, raising his voice just a little.

"We had our reasons," Coulson says. The tone of his voice stops Sam from asking anymore questions. The frustration and confusion on Sam's face is palpable. And Coulson is acting so nonchalant about it. I wouldn't mind punching him in the face. Yes, that sounds good. He's never been my favorite person. Regardless, I'm still in shock from the revelation that Sam has a brother. I'm more shocked that he never mentioned him.

"Dean," says Coulson, "why don't you tell Evelyn and Sam what you learned about Lilith and Cyrus and the warehouses in Sector Two."

"Of course," says Dean. He clears his throat. "Lilith and Cyrus have put together a group of eight kids. From what I can tell, they have the same skills and knowledge of a fully trained agent. They take shelter in the abandoned piers near marshland Sector Two." He shifts his position in the chair. "My team tailed Cyrus and Lilith for about a week before we were forced to abort the mission. We learned the location of one of Ambrose's warehouses but unfortunately for us, the warehouse was empty and deserted by the time we were able to scope it out. We did overhear, however, that they refer to the virus as Chimera and the antidote as Bellerophon."

"Do they move around warehouses?" I ask.

"That's what we believe is happening," says Dean. "Lilith and Cyrus have a very close eye on the shifting warehouses. Therefore, we believe going undercover and joining their group will help us kill two birds with one stone."

"The location of the warehouses and eventually the arrest of Lilith and Cyrus," Sam says.

"That's right," says Dean. He has a deep, husky voice.

Coulson clears his throat. "Dr. Ellicott, why don't you tell everyone the facts and information we have on the disease?"

"My pleasure, sir," says Dr. Ellicott. He gets out of his chair and walks toward the wall adjacent to us. He pulls down a screen and pulls a small remote out of his jacket pocket and presses a button. The lights dim and the screen turns blue.

"From studying many patients who've become infected with the disease, we have learned exactly what Chimera is capable of. The disease seems to have been created through three of the most deadliest existing viruses known to man."

"What does Chimera do exactly?" I ask.

"The virus has an incubation period of seventy-two hours before symptoms become present. Chimera involves very rapid cell destruction. The virus attacks your red blood cells and seemingly obliterates every cell," says Dr. Ellicott.

He shows a picture of a young woman on the screen.

"This is what a patient infected with Chimera looks like at the first symptoms." The woman appears normal looking. He clicks his remote to the next picture.

"After seventy-four hours." The woman is now covered in sweat and her eyes are bloodshot. He clicks to the next slide.

"Eighty hours." The woman is coughing up blood and has a bloody nose. Her eyes are crusted and swollen. He clicks to the next slide.

"Eighty-two hours." The woman has bloody scabs covering every inch of her skin.

"Eighty-seven hours. Death occurs." The woman has blood pouring from every scab and opening in her body. I shudder and resist the urge to gag.

"Chimera seems to take over your body's functions and destroys them in record breaking time. We've estimated that the antidote is only effective if taken twenty-four hours after exposure," says Dr. Ellicott.

"And after that?" I say.

"I'm afraid it's too late," he says.

I shake my head and lean back in my chair. Such a horrible, _horrible_ disease.

"Thank you, Dr. Ellicott. You may sit back down," says Coulson.

Dr. Ellicott turns off the screen and takes a seat at the table. The lights come back on. Sam looks slightly pale. I imagine I look the same. I wasn't allowed to see my brother when he was infected. He was quarantined the moment he was exposed. I got to say goodbye before the virus began to show itself. I hold back the tears I feel forming in my eyes and stare at the table. I feel someone's hand grab hold of mine in my lap and gently squeeze. I don't need to look to know it's Sam.

"How did they create the virus?" asks Sam.

"After your father refused, Ambrose went to his second choice: Dr. Nekhorvich of Sector Nine. Head scientist and doctor of the Center of Disease Control. He created Chimera and Bellerophon," says Coulson.

I clench my free hand into a tight fist.

"Dean, why don't you, Sam, and Evelyn look over the maps of Sector Two and formulate a strategy. I need to discuss a few things with Jameson and the doctor," says Coulson.

"Yes, sir," says Dean. He gets up and motions for Sam and I to follow him. I let go of Sam's hand and follow Dean out the door. He leads us into a smaller room with gray walls and carpet. A table and a few chairs sit in the center of the room. A small counter with a sink and a mini fridge lay against one of the walls.

Dean takes a seat and pulls a few maps and papers out of his bag. Sam and I take a sit in the chairs across from him. He lays the maps out in front of us and folds his hands in front of him on the table. He smiles and looks between us. I raise my eyebrows at him but he just stares at us. A long stretch of silence stretches between us.

Finally I say, "Are we going to formulate a plan or stare at each other all day?"

"I thought you were dead, Dean," says Sam.

Dean averts his eyes to the table and then back at Sam. "I know," he says. "I'm sorry. By the time I heard about Mom and Dad I got there too late. They were dead and you were gone."

"I watched them die! Didn't you try to find me?" says Sam.

"Of course I did!" says Dean. "Coulson got a hold of me and told me where you were and what happened. I was all prepared to come to you but he stopped me."

"Why?" Sam asks.

"He asked me if I could look into what was going on. That's what I've been doing these last six months," he says.

"And you didn't think to tell me?"

"I thought Coulson would tell you. I'm sorry, Sammy."

Sam stares at the table. "It's fine. I guess," he says. "You're here now. That's all that matters."

"Damn straight," says Dean. "Now, we can talk more later. Let's create a plan and take down those sons of bitches, alright?"

Sam and I both nod.

"Evelyn," Dean says, turning his attention to me. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Oh? That's nice. I'd like to say the same about you but . . . ."

Dean laughs. I feel myself smile a little. Any tension there was in the room seems to dissipate a little.

"So, what are you thinking so far?" says Sam.

Dean turn the map toward us. He's marked several streets and buildings with red X's.

"Are these the locations of warehouses?" I ask.

"Previously used warehouses," says Dean. "Like I said earlier, they move around every week. Only the street kids know where the currents warehouses are."

"Do you think it will be easy getting them to accept us?" says Sam.

"It might not be a walk in the park but uh, they'll let us in," says Dean.

"You sound pretty confident about that" I say.

"We just have to convince them we want Ambrose stopped just as much as they do."

"That shouldn't be hard," I say.

"Exactly. It's probably the only thing we have in common with these kids," Dean says.

Sam grabs the map and holds it in front of us. He studies it for a minute and then says, "So where do the street kids . . . live?"

Dean takes the map back from Sam. He points to an area that is circled. "This," he says, "is their base camp."

I study the area around and in the circle. Street names, roads.

"Do they guard it?" I ask.

"Sort of. We watched them enter and leave the building. Someone is by the inside of the door at all times. There's some kind of password or code to get in," says Dean.

"A code? What kind of code?" says Sam.

"Like a knocking code. You know, knock twice, then three times, then six times? Something like that."

"I bet it changes every day or so," I say

Dean looks at me. "Why do you figure that?"

"It's what I would do." I shrug.

He clears his throat. "Yahtzee! It changes daily."

I nod my head.

We spend the next two hours going over the maps of Sector Two and potential buildings are warehouses that hold Chimera. By the time dinner rolls around, our plan is this:

In two weeks—after Sam and I have acquired specific training for the mission—the three of us will use a car to drive to Sector Two, which is a good eleven to twelve hour drive. Since the city is falling apart, practically anyone is allowed to enter the Sector at any given time. We'll drive into the center of the city where Jameson and a team of men will be waiting to equip us with weapons and ear pieces and clothes to blend in on the streets.

After we make it to base camp, Sam, Dean and me will head out on foot in search of Lilith and Cyrus. Once we find them, we get into their good graces and work our magic from there. The objective is to convince them we want in on busting Ambrose—which isn't a total lie—and once they show us the location of the current warehouse, we'll turn on Lilith and Cyrus and Jameson's team will come in and arrest them.

It's not a horrible plan, but I have the feeling that Coulson and Jameson think this mission will be a piece of cake, whereas I feel like it will be much for difficult than we think it is. It's dangerous and stupid to underestimate anything or anyone.

"What should we do once we find the warehouse?" I ask.

"When that time comes will take the time to formulate another plan. For now, one plan will do," says Dean.

I'm a little skeptical about this. We should have a plan and a backup plan and a plan for the backup plan should failure occur or in case things go awry.

"Shouldn't we create a plan B? You know, just in case?" I say.

"Just in case what? Making it into the city won't be a problem," says Dean.

"Maybe not," I say, "but we need to make it to base camp first, right? What happens if we don't make it there?"

"Relax," says Dean. "We'll make it there. City is practically a zombie town. With a lot of hills."

I look at Sam. He just shrugs his shoulders. I sigh and lean back in my chair. I'm just going to have to trust that Dean knows what he's doing. After all, he's the only one of us whose been to Sector Two. Not to mention he has real experience out in the field. In case things do go wrong, I better hope we can think of something fast.

"Oh by the way," says Dean, digging around in his bag, "I grabbed this from the house." He pulls out a leather bound book and sets it on the table. "It was Dad's journal."

"No way," says Sam, picking up the journal.

"Oh yeah. I grabbed it from his office. You should look through it."

Sam opens the journal and begins to flip through the pages. I decide to leave the two of the alone for a while. They probably have a lot of catching up and explaining to do.

"I'll leave you guys alone for a while," I say, getting up out of the chair. I stretch my arms over my head. I've been sitting too long.

"Yeah, okay. I'll see you later?" says Sam.

"Of course," I say.

Dean waves. I wave back. I shut the door behind me and start toward Emilee's dorm. I actually feel better knowing Dean will be on the mission with us. Especially with Jameson in charge of the back-up team. Double-crossing Cyrus and Lilith won't be a walk in the park, either. There's eight of them and three of us? We'll all be evenly matched skill-wise.

I hope we know what we're doing.


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note:**

**I'm so sorry it's been a while since I have updated! I recently got a job and they have me working crazy long hours which has left me with little time to work on this story. I am currently on vacation, but I have been working on the story and since we're at a hotel with WiFi, I figured I would post the next three chapters I have finished.  
**

**This chapter is the last one that has a Divergent chunk in it. After this chapter the rest of the story will be 95% my own writing.  
**

**Hope you enjoy!  
**

* * *

"HE HAS A brother?" asks Emilee.

I didn't necessarily come here to tell Emilee the big revelation—I meant to ask her to look after Cas while I was gone. But as soon as she opened her door it just sort of popped out of my mouth. I guess I have to share my shock with someone. Might as well be one of my confidants.

"I know it's . . . crazy, right?" I say, stepping into her dorm. I glance around her room and then at her. She seems . . . different. Not in a bad way, just different. There's this look in her eyes—they're harder than they use to be. Her blonde hair no longer reaches the middle of her back. Instead, it lies in waves over her shoulders. Her body has muscle that never use to exist. She's still the naïve, sweet girl, though. Not a mean bone in her body.

"Speaking of Sam," she says, "I've noticed you two have gotten pretty close."

Her statement catches me off guard.

"What do you mean?" I ask evasively.

She rolls her eyes. "You _know_ what I mean."

I purse my lips and take a seat on her couch. She takes a seat next to me. I know she's looking for me to admit something, but truth is: I've hardly admitted it to myself. But maybe I can tell her half of the truth.

"Yes, we have grown close to each other," I admit.

"Is that all?" she says.

I raise an eyebrow at her.

"Fine," she says. "I'll stop probing." She sets her hands on my shoulders. "Want to know a secret?"

"Do I really have to answer that?"

"Just . . . be a girl for a few seconds," she says.

"I'm always a girl." I frown.

"You know what I mean. Like a silly, annoying girl."

I twirl my hair around my finger. "Kay."

She grins so wide I can see her back row of teeth. "Eden kissed me."

"What?" I demand. "When? How? What happened?"

"You can be a girl!" She straightens, taking her hands from my shoulders. "Well, right after Hal's funeral, we ate lunch and then we walked around near the waterfront. We were just talking about . . . I don't even remember what we were talking about. And then he just stopped, and leaned in, and . . . kissed me."

"Did you know that he liked you?" I say. "I mean, you know. Like that."

"No!" She laughs. "The best part was, that was it. We just kept walking and talking like nothing happened. Well, until _I _kissed _him_."

"How long have you known you liked him?"

"I don't know. I guess I didn't. But then the little things . . . how he put his arm around me at the funeral, how he opens doors for me and treats me like I'm strong instead of someone who can't even win a fight."

I laugh. I can't believe I had been so oblivious to all this. "I'm happy for you," I say.

"Thanks," she says. "I'm happy too. And I thought it would be a while before I could feel that way . . . you know."

She shifts her position on the couch and looks around her dorm. Soon we'll move into apartments anywhere we would like in the city.

"I can't believe it's almost over," she says. "It's like we just got here. But it's also like . . . like I haven't seen home in forever."

"You miss it?" I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.

"Yeah." She shrugs. "Some things are the same, though. I mean, my family was loud as everyone here, so that's good. But it's easier there. I miss my parents."

I nod. Sometimes I wonder how my parents are doing. How empty the house must feel. I know I didn't have a choice, but sometimes I feel like it's my fault I left them and not the Trial and the stupid laws that surround it.

"Anyways," she says, "I'm glad I told you. I had to let someone know!"

I pull her into an embrace. "I'm going to miss you."

"I know," she says.

"Watch after my inventory for me, will you?"

She pulls back, her hands gently squeeze my shoulders. "You mean Cas?" she laughs. "Of course I will."

"Thanks."

"No problem. Hey, you be careful out there, you hear me?" she says.

"I will," I promise her. "I will."

When I find Sam later that night, he's sitting in one of the plush chairs in the foyer. His left elbow sits propped on the armchair and his head rests against his open hand and his father's journal lies open on his lap. He's fallen asleep.

I gently lift the journal from under his other arm. Just before I close it, I catch the first two sentences of an entry dated March 10th, 2062. It says:

_Sam took his first steps today. They were toward Dean._

I smile and close the journal and tuck it under my elbow. I lean forward and gently shake Sam's shoulder.

"Sam," I say.

He opens his eyes and blinks a few times. He stares at me for a few moments and then says, "Hey."

"Hey," I say back. "You fell asleep."

"Guess I did," he says. He stands up and stretches his arms.

"Where's Dean?" I ask, handing him his journal.

"Back at his own dorm. Probably asleep." He looks around the dimly lit foyer. "What time is it?"

"Quarter past ten." He nods his head. I decide now would be a good time to ask the questions which have been probing me. "So, you have a brother." I'll start there.

"Yeah," he says, sitting back down in the chair. I take that as my cue to sit down as well. "It just . . . never really came up in conversation. I mean, I wasn't ready to talk about it, yet. I thought he was dead, after all."

I can understand that. "Where was he when . . ."

". . . when my parents were killed? He was probably has his apartment. I tried calling him every day. He never called back. After a while I just . . . assumed they got him too." He lifts a shoulder. "I was too afraid of the answer I'd get if I asked Coulson."

"And he knew all along," I say.

"I just don't understand why he didn't tell me," Sam says, rubbing his forehead.

"Well, Coulson's a dick."

Sam laughs. "Yeah. I guess so."

"I'm glad Dean's alive," I say. "Are you two close?"

"Yes, very." He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees; hands clasped in front of him. "Remember when you asked me who taught me to fight? But I avoided the answer?"

"Yeah. I guess," I shrug.

"It was Dean."

This brings on a smile. We both had—or in his case, have—a big brother looking out for us.

"What was your dad like?" I ask. Before when I asked him if he wanted to talk he had refused. I hope he's willing to open up a little now that Dean is alive and here with us.

For a few moments Sam is quiet, then he says, "Honestly? He was kind of an obsessed bastard."

I wasn't expecting him to say that.

"Um . . . what?"

He laughs a little. "Don't get me wrong," he says, "I loved the guy it's just . . . he had a really bad gambling addiction. Got him into a lot of trouble on a regular basis. Home wasn't always safe."

"Didn't you say your dad was a brilliant scientist?" I say.

"I did—he was. But uh, when I was six months old—Dean was four at the time—something went wrong at his work. He made a mistake and embarrassed the company whom he worked for. Long story short, they fired him." He clears his throat. "Anyways, he was pretty distraught about it. Went out, got drunk, got sucked into some poker game and pretty much gambled almost all our money away. After that, he was always obsessed with trying to get it back. He gambled all time, _all_ the time. Eventually, he started owing some guys a lot of money and he obviously couldn't pay them. So sometimes, bad men would show up at the house. Dangerous men."

"That must have been rough."

"It just got worse as I got older. You see, he just never stopped. He wanted to or at least says he did. Then the drinking started . . . it wasn't good. It was really hard on Dean and my mother."

"Your mother must have loved him a lot for staying with him," I say.

"She was an amazing woman. She tried so hard to help him and keep us safe at the same time." He pauses for a few moments. "Anyways, when I got older, I don't know I was maybe five or six, he sobered up enough to teach Dean how to protect himself and me. He always got on Dean about protecting me. He tried to get back on the straight and narrow but he had already made too many enemies."

"That just . . . must have been a tough childhood. I really can't imagine what that would have been like. Having to fear for you safety in your own home?" I say.

"It wasn't easy," he admits. "One day when I was six, these men came to the house and set it on fire while we were all asleep. I awoke to Dean shaking me. He grabbed me and carried me outside. I think since that night, Dean's always felt that it was his job to protect me—no matter what."

"You're lucky to have him."

Sam's about to reply when we spot Dean briskly making his way toward us.

"What's—," Sam begins.

"Where's this Marcus guy?" Dean says, angrily.

Sam and I exchange looks.

"Marcus? Why do you want him?" Sam says.

"Because I'm gonna tear his lungs out!" yells Dean.

"I guess he heard what happened." I say.

Sam nods his head and stands up, tucking his dad's journal under his arm. "Don't worry about it, Dean. It was a long time ago."

"Are you kidding me? I'm going to make him wish he was never born!"

Sam grabs his arm and steers him toward the dorms. He looks over his shoulder and says, "I'll see you tomorrow!" and then they begin arguing about why Dean shouldn't pummel Marcus.

I give a small wave and laugh to myself. I realize it's the first time I've laughed in a while. It feels good to laugh again. And for a moment, I can forget about all my worries.


	19. Chapter 19

I PULL THE curling iron out of my hair and gently stroke the new curl until it softens into a wave. The last two weeks have been the toughest of Special Ops training I've had to endure. Twelve hour days, five days a week of nothing but training for the mission. I've learned how to walk and move as light as a cat, make and disarm explosives, be as flexible as a gymnast, and special undercover training techniques to blend in with the people of Sector 2. I think I'm as physically and mentally prepared as any one person could be.

I turn off the curling iron and smooth out my black dress. Tonight is the night of mine and Sam's induction ceremony. The night we officially become agents. The butterflies have come and gone multiple times throughout the day. I'm not sure what is making me so nervous, but nonetheless, I am excited to finally fulfill what I've worked so hard for. I think of my brother and parents and how they would be proud of me tonight. It gives me the strength to endure the night and all the new responsibilities that will come with it.

I finish getting ready by putting a set of pearl earrings on and look once more in the mirror before I head out the door. While my heels aren't very tall, I still find them uncomfortable and unnatural to walk in. How some women manage to run around in heels much taller than mine all day is beyond me. But if they can do it I am determined that I can, too.

When I reach the foyer I am greeted by a middle-aged man and lead to a sleek black car that will take me to the ceremony. The induction is being held at the Rose Gardens, probably my favorite place in all of Portland.

The car ride doesn't last long. Normally you would need to ride the MAX to Washington Park station and then catch a bus to the gardens, but on nights when there is an occasion like this, trains and buses aren't necessary nor in good taste for a formal occasion.

The driver of the car comes around and opens the door for me. I tell him thank you and step into the garden. It's not the same one Sam and I toured when we first met, but it's still just as gorgeous. The garden is crowded with the Sector's most influential people. Government officials, Agents, you name it. The stage where I will be inducted is currently occupied by a live band. In front of the stage is an area where a few people have taken to dancing. Twinkling lights have been strewn around the garden and caterers busily move from person to person offering a drink or some form of hors d'oeuvre.

I quickly scan the garden for any sign of Sam. No Sam, but I do see Dean. He's chatting with an attractive young woman who appears to be blushing from something he has said.

I begin walking toward him when a caterer steps in front of me.

"May I offer you a glass of our finest champagne, Miss Carter?" she says.

I take a glass off her tray in reply and give her a small thank you. I begin walking again and take a sip of the champagne. It certainly is delicious.

I walk up behind Dean and tap his shoulder. He turns around, a glass of champagne in his hand as well, and smiles at me. His smile is _amazing. _

"Evelyn," he says, "you look nice."

"So do you," I say. And he does. He's wearing a black suit with a green tie that matches the color of his eyes.

"What can I help you with?" he says.

"I was just looking for Sam," I say.

"Oh, well he's right there," he says, pointing behind me.

I turn around and see Sam making his way toward us. Our eyes meet and he smiles, which makes me smile. I turn back to Dean. He smirks at me.

"What?" I say.

"Oh, nothing," he says, laughing slightly.

Before I can think too much about his behavior, Sam comes up beside me. He also wears a black suit but instead of a green tie, his is blue.

"When is this thing going to start, already!" says Dean.

"Patience, Dean," Sam says.

"Yeah, well, patience and me aren't exactly on terms," Dean says.

A caterer walks by us with a tray of crab cakes in her hands. Dean's eyebrows shoot up in delight. He starts to take off after her but stops and whispers something in Sam's ear and nudges him with his elbow. Before Sam can say anything he takes off in pursuit of the crab cakes. Sam grins and shakes his head.

"Good to have your brother back?" I say.

"It is," he says.

Before both of us have a chance to say anything more, an elderly woman approaches Sam and whisks him away. She wants to introduce him to her granddaughter who is a "wonderful young lady" and has been just dying to meet Sam. He turns around to look at me with a look that says he's sorry and then he's gone, engulfed in the crowd and being introduced to some girl. No it's fine, not like I was talking to him.

Knowing Sam is talking to another girl makes something prickle in my stomach. Jealousy? That must be what I am feeling.

I walk over to the buffet table take in my options of food. I settle on a crab cake and scan the crowd of people in front of me. I spot Sam a ways to my left. A tall, slender girl talks to him with a smile on her face and long, blonde hair that she tosses over her shoulder. Something she says causes Sam to laugh. My eyebrows furrow and I take a huge bite of my crab cake.

"You're just gonna stand here and let that happen?"

I practically jump out of my skin and turn to my right. Dean stands beside me wearing a very amused expression on his face. I swallow my half-chewed food and say, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Dean scoffs and says, "Well, I can tell you he's not interested in her."

I shift from foot to foot. "How do you know?"

"Because, I know Sammy and believe me, she's not the one he wants to be talking to."

"Looks like they're having a pretty good time to me," I grumble.

This makes Dean laugh.

"I'm sorry, did I say something funny?" I say, half annoyed and cross my arms.

"And Coulson told me you were a perceptive one!"

"You think you're funny?" I say.

"I think I'm adorable," he says.

"Oh just go away."

He walks away still laughing to himself. But if Dean's right about one thing it's that he knows his brother. If he says Sam isn't interested in this girl then I'll have to take his word on it. Doesn't mean I like it any less.

A half hour passes before Sam and I are being called to the stage to be inducted and receive our badges. I set down my now empty glass of Champagne and nervously make my way toward the stage. Sam and I both reach the stairs at the same time.

"You ready?" he says.

"As I'll ever be," I say. We climb the steps and are ushered toward the center of the stage. Coulson stands to the left of us and behind him is a small table with our badges laid on top. As our training instructor, Jameson stands behind the table, ready to present us with our badges when Coulson gives him the go ahead.

Coulson clears his throat in the microphone to signal for the crowd to cease talking. All eyes are on us. Coulson smiles and says, "We are here tonight to honor two of Sector Four's most exceptional trainees. They have worked hard to prove their worth to the agency and to their Sector and are here tonight to be bestowed as full agents."

Applause and cheers rise from the crowd.

"As the head Mission Commander of Sector Four, I would like to present our two newest agents with their badges and formally welcome them as full members of Special Ops."

More cheers.

"Evelyn Carter, would you please step forward," Coulson instructs.

I make my way to stand beside Coulson. He reaches a hand out and I shake it. He tells me congratulations and motions for Jameson to present me with my badge.

I accept the badge from Jameson and shake hands with him as well, all while resisting the urge to wipe my hand off on my dress. Instructor or not, Jameson has a quality about him that absolutely rubs me the wrong way.

I acknowledge the crowd and stand on the other side of Jameson. He calls Sam forward and shakes his hand. Jameson presents him with his badge and pats him on the shoulder. Once he's standing beside me, Coulson says, "Let's hear it for our newest agents of Sector Four!"

The crowd bursts into a new round of cheers and applause. I scan the crowd and find Dean. He has his hands cupped around his mouth and shouts the loudest cheer from the crowd. I shift my eyes off him and look over the crowd. It takes me a moment to realize I was searching for my family. Coulson dismisses us from the stage and we are immediately bombarded with congratulations. I am overwhelmed with emotion and just want to get away from the crowd a people for a few minutes. I try to talk to Sam but there are too many people talking to him. I give up and decide to escape to Peninsula Park, my favorite garden. Maybe I'll feel closer to Todd.

I walk toward the path which will lead me to the other garden. I quickly glance behind me to make sure I am not being followed, and then slip off into the night.


	20. Chapter 20

I WALK UP the brick steps to stand under the octagonal bandstand. This section of the garden is quieter. Only the faint hum of music and distant laughter can be heard.

I lean against one of the beams and close my eyes, taking a deep breath of the crisp, cool air. It feels good against my warm skin. The moon and stars shine brightly in the darkening sky. Twinkling lights have been hung around the bandstand. They blink on and off at different time intervals; giving the illusion of a flickering fire in the night. An occasional lightning bug drifts by in front of me, wandering away from the many others who glow around the garden.

I frown. Lightning bugs aren't native to Oregon. In the distance I can hear the music change from an upbeat, get-up-and-dance song to something slower, something more passionate—a slow song. I can barely make out the words which are being sung.

"Would you like to dance?" a voice says behind me.

I start a little and then relax, a smile forming on my lips. "That depends," I say, still looking forward, "I've never danced before."

"Lucky for you, I'm an awesome teacher," he says, coming to stand beside me.

"Is that so?" I say, now facing him.

The suit jacket Sam was wearing only a few moments ago is gone. The sleeves of his white button-up shirt have been rolled up to his elbows and he has loosened the tie around his neck. He looks so handsome.

"Must be your lucky day," he says.

"Must be," I agree.

He pulls out a red, thornless rose from behind his back and holds it out to me. "For you," he says.

I can't hide the grin on my face. I take the rose and lift it to my nose. I close my eyes and inhale the sweet scent. It reminds me of the too few good memories I have.

"It's beautiful," I say, still smiling.

Sam takes a step back and holds out his hand, offering me to take it. I set my rose on the railing and take his hand. It feels warm and strong.

He pulls me to the center of the bandstand and takes his right hand in my left, guiding them into the air. He lifts my arm so my hand rests on his shoulder and then guides his hand behind my back to lie against my shoulder blade.

"Now take a small step to your right," he says.

I step to my right.

"Good," he says. "I'll step forward with my left foot, and you step back with your left," he instructs.

He steps forward and I step back.

"Okay, now I'm going to step forward with my other foot and slide it to the right."

"And I do the same?" I ask.

"Yes."

He steps forward with his other foot to meet his left and slides it to the right. I do the same with my feet.

"Now I'm going to slide my left foot to meet with my right," he says, performing the move. I do the same. "Then I'm going to step back . . ."

". . . and I step forward . . ."

"And then we move to the left."

"So we're basically moving around in a box?" I say.

"Basically," he laughs.

We move around in our box, practicing until it feels natural. He turns slightly to the right so we move around in a circular pattern. He lifts our clasped hands higher into the air and I break away from him and spin in a circle and then back to our original position.

"Where'd you learn that?" he asks.

"Television," I say, stepping forward to keep up with his rhythm.

He laughs and spins me again. This time, instead of going back into our original position, I wrap my arms around his back and lay my chin on his shoulder. He moves his arms around my waist and tilts his head to rest against mine.

For a while we sway along to the distant music. I haven't felt this at peace in months—perhaps years. It feels _good_. Being with _Sam_ feels good.

"Where did you learn to dance?" I whisper against his neck.

"I use to watch my parents when I was little—after they thought I was already in bed. At times when things weren't so bad. I use to sneak out and watch them."

I lift my head off his shoulder to look at him. He presses his forehead to mine and closes his eyes. I do the same. I wish I could freeze this moment and live in it forever. He pulls back slightly and opens his yes. His eyes meet mine and they make me want to melt. He touches my face and leans in closer, brushing my lips with his. He grins and presses his mouth to mine.

I tense up at first, unsure of myself, so when he pulls away, I'm sure I did something wrong, or badly. But he takes my face in his hands, his fingers strong against my skin, and kisses me again, firmer this time, more certain. I wrap an arm around him, sliding my hand up his neck and into his short hair.

This isn't like anything I've ever seen, or imagined, or even dreamed: This is like music or dancing, but better than both. His lips are soft, the same soft pressure as the quietly insistent voice in my head that keeps saying _yes_.

The warmth is only growing inside of me, waves of light swelling and breaking and making me feel like I'm floating. His fingers lace my hair, cup my neck and the back of my head, skim over my shoulders, and without thinking about it or meaning to, my hands find his chest, the curve of his jaw. My heart is drumming in my chest so hard it aches, but it's the good kind of ache, like the feeling you get on the first day of real autumn, when the air is crisp and the leaves are all flaring at the edges and the wind smells vaguely of smoke—like the end and the beginning of something all at once. Under my hand, I swear I can feel his heart beating out a response, an immediate echo of mine, as though our bodies are speaking to each other.

And suddenly it's all so ridiculously and stupidly clear I feel like laughing. This is what I want. This is the only thing I've ever wanted. Everything else—every single second of every single day that has come before this very moment, this kiss—has meant nothing.

For a few moments we kiss, all the background noise disappears. Nothing else exists but us.

When he finally pulls away it's like a blanket has come down over my brain, quieting all my buzzing thoughts and questions, filling me with a calm and happiness as deep and cool as the snow. A happiness I never thought could be filled again after the death of my brother. Sam has filled the empty void inside me that once consumed me.

We leave the garden hand-in-hand. The way things were always meant to be.


	21. Chapter 21

**I am SO sorry It has taken me so long to update! I got in a bit of a writer's block! I WILL have the next couple chapters up before the weekend. I promise! With that out of the way, here is chapter 21! Enjoy!**

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"WHEN YOU ARRIVE in Sector Two, you are to immediately search for Jameson and his team. They arrived in Sector Two early this morning and will be awaiting your arrival," says Coulson, as I pull on a tattered jacket. We were provided with clothes to help us blend into the streets of Sector 2. I wear a dirty t-shirt, pants that are frayed and torn, and worn boots with

scuff marks. Dean and Sam each wear similar clothes.

I pull my hair into a braid and look around my surroundings. We're in a dimly lit parking garage where Coulson will send us off to Sector 2. Dean leans against an old, beaten up four door sedan which sits a few feet to my right.

"Jameson will then direct you to our weapons expert hidden in Sector 2. He doesn't know you'll be coming, so be sure to let him know that I sent you. I know you three will make me proud. I'll be in communication with Jameson the whole time. I have no doubts about the mission, and neither should you. Good luck," he says.

Coulson shakes hands with each of us and then gets in his own car and drives away. We're on our own for now.

"Well let's get this show on the road, shall we?" says Dean, moving to the driver's side of the sedan.

"Whoa," says Sam, "don't we have a choice in who gets to drive?"

"Well, I'll let you think you have a choice but uh, you don't." Dean smiles and slides into the driver's seat.

I open the door to the back seat and get in. Sam follows behind me and sits next to me. "You're not going to sit up front with Dean?" I say.

I catch Dean's smirk in the rearview mirror. Sam smiles and says, "Nah, I like it better back here."

I blush and make myself comfortable against Sam. I wait for the car to pull forward but nothing happens. Dean has both hands on the wheel but has made no move to start the car.

"Um, Dean? Are we gonna get moving?" I say.

He glances at me in the mirror. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm just . . . you know, thinking about what we'll run into."

"Are you actually nervous, Dean?" I say in mock surprise.

He takes a deep breath. "No," he says, and puts on a mock smile. He takes another deep breath.

"Just try to relax," I say.

"Just try to shut up." And with that he starts the car and pulls out of the garage.

"So how long of a drive is it to Sector Two?" asks Sam.

"Normally? About ten hours or so. With me driving? Maybe six."

"Is that supposed to be reassuring?" I say.

Dean smirks and steps on the gas.

"Delightful," I say. I lean my head against Sam's shoulder and close my eyes. He slips an arm around me and lays his head against mine. Before I know it, I'm drifting off into sleep.

When I awaken later, my had no longer lies against Sam but instead against the car window. The sun is just dipping below the horizon, setting the sky a blazing pink and orange. I close my eyes again and sigh.

"If we can fool them into thinking we've found Ambrose, then they might try to come with us. We can lead them straight to Jameson and then he can arrest them," says Sam.

I peak an eye open, Sam is leaning against the front seats talking to Dean.

"No," says Dean.

"No, if they want Ambrose as much as Coulson says, they won't be able to resist coming along!" insists Sam.

"No," Dean says, again.

"Why not?"

"Because I didn't think of it."

Before Sam can reply I say, "What are you two arguing about now?"

Sam turns around. "We're just trying to figure out how we'll arrest Cyrus and Lilith."

"And how's that going?" I say.

"Fantastic," Sam says.

"How far away are we?" I ask.

"We should be there within an hour or so," says Dean.

I sit upright. "I slept that long?"

"No, you river danced," says Dean sarcastically.

"Oh shut it," I mutter.

Sam moves to my side and grabs my hand.

"Have you been sleeping at night?" he whispers in my ear.

"Not very well," I admit.

He nods his head and doesn't say anymore.

We sit in silence for a half hour. I can a city beginning to come into view out my window.

"We should think of names," I say.

"Names for what?" says Dean.

"Ourselves. It might be better if we use fake names when we're around the street kids. You know, just a precaution."

"She has a point," Sam says.

"Okay," says Dean, "then I'll be Angus Young."

"Angus Young? Really?" I say.

"Angus Young is a member of Dean's favorite band," Sam explains.

"And that band would be . . . ."

"AC/DC!" Dean declares.

"You listen to oldies?" I say.

"Classic Rock is quality music," says Dean.

"Well," Sam interjects, "I guess I'll go by Jacob."

"And what about you, Evelyn?" Dean prompts.

I think for a moment and then say, "Alenna. After my mom."

"Angus, Jacob and Alenna. Perfect," says Dean.

We sit in silence for the rest of the ride. I can't help but think of what the next few hours will bring. We're minutes away from Sector 2 and the start of the mission. My heart pounds in my chest with ferocity I haven't quite felt before. I'm ready to bring down Ambrose and avenge the deaths of those he has caused, starting with my brother.

We drive onto a long, disintegrating bridge that will take us into the heart of Sector 2. The city of San Francisco is full of dilapidated buildings. Clouds hang low and thick in and around the city. I roll down my window a bit. The air is cold and bitter outside, despite the time of year. I roll my window back up and shiver. This place is a ghost town.

"So how do we find Jameson?" I ask.

"Coulson told me we would know when we see it. So keep an eye out, both of you," says Dean.

I look out my window and search for anything that would direct us to Jameson's hideout. As we pass an empty building, I catch movement from the alley adjacent to it. I just catch a glimpse of a small person duck behind a dumpster.

_One of the street kids? _I wonder.

Dean turns down a street that takes us up a steep hill. Trash litters the ground in every direction. The wind picks up and twirls garbage bags until they get caught on something. I'm surprised this place is still considered a Sector. It looks like they never bothered to rebuild or repair the damage the war caused all those years ago.

"That's it," says Dean.

I look to where Dean is pointing. A collapsing parking garage with flickering lights sits in front of us. On a large slab of concrete someone has painted a rose.

"Clever," I murmur.

Dean steers the car toward the building and comes to a park just in front of it.

"And so it begins," he says.


	22. Chapter 22

DEAN STEPS ON the gas pedal, moving the car forward. The entrance to the garage is surrounded by cracked and crumbling concrete. I briefly glance around for any signs of life but the streets and building look bare.

We pass under the entrance and begin up a steep incline that takes us higher off the ground and deeper into the garage. We make it to level two, and soon we're coming up to level four when a man steps in front of the car. He holds out a hand, signaling for us to stop. Another man who seemingly appeared out of nowhere knocks on the driver's side window, causing all three of us to jump. The man motions for Dean to roll down the window. Dean glances at Sam and I and then does as the man asked.

"Please state your full name and identity number," the man says.

"Dean Matthews. Agent 112-782-B."

The man looks at Sam and me.

"Sam Matthews. Agent 124-792-B."

I clear my throat. "Evelyn Carter. Agent 435-108-E."

The man types our names and numbers into an electronic device in his hand, checking to see if we are the people we say. He looks at each of us and then at the device and says, "We've been expecting you. Please, just this way." He opens Dean's door.

We unbuckle our seat belts and step out of the car. The garage is dry and cold.

"Follow me," the man instructs.

We follow the man around a concrete wall where three more men each sit around a table. On one wall sits a desk with multiple computer screens and on another wall hang papers and mug shots of Cyrus and Lilith and Jason Ambrose.

"Welcome to Sector 2," a voice says behind us.

We turn around. Jameson steps forward and stops in front of us. His greasy hair is pulled into a pony tail and I swear he has more piercings on his face than the last time I saw him. He motions for a man carrying a try to come forward.

The man walks over to us and holds out the tray. "Earpieces for us to keep in touch," explains Jameson.

We each grab an earpiece. I exam mine in my open palm. It's not bigger than the size of a pea. I stick it in my ear and position it. Can hardly feel the thing.

"To turn them on and off, simply touch your finger to the earpiece. It's pretty simple," says Jameson. "Report back to me every night at ten O'clock. An hour later and I send a reconnaissance team and you will be forced to abort the mission. Understand?"

We nod.

"Good." He makes his way over to the board. "I am going to direct you three to Frank Deveraux. He used to be a special weapons expert."

"What do you mean "used" to be?" I say.

"Let's just say he got a little paranoid and became a shut in."

I look at Sam. He just shrugs.

"So where is Frank?" asks Sam.

"Frank is in a house on Lombard Avenue. Number 163. One you find him, be sure to mention that Coulson sent you. He owes Coulso for Port Huron."

"Port Huron?" Sam says.

"Frank will know. Frank will provide you with special weapons and gadgets that are camouflaged to look like everyday items. We also have a lead that the street kids are hiding out in the abandoned Fort Mason warehouse. You can start there."

"Sounds fantastic," mutters Dean.

Jameson twists an earring in his lip. I cringe.

He begins walking away. "You better get going. Time is of the essence. Find the street kids and get into their good graces. And," he turns back around, "don't screw up the mission."

It's good to know he has so much faith in us.

We turn around and begin walking back toward the car. Sam places a hand against the small of my back and gets into the back seat with me. Dean puts turns the car on and pulls forward, following the fading arrows that lead us toward an exit.

By the time we make it out of the garage, night has fallen and covered the streets in darkness.

"Which way to Lombard?" Dean says.

Sam unfolds a map tucked behind the passenger seat.

"It's two streets down, past Greenwich," Sam says. "Take a left onto Van Ness."

Dean turns on to Van Ness. We pass Filbert Street and then Greenwich.

"Turn right on Lombard."

We turn right. I move to the right side of the window and look for a house marked 163. We drive a few hundred feet when I see it. It's a small, blue house with broken windows and a flickering porch light. Shutters hang from loose nails around the windows and patches of shingles are missing from the roof.

Dean pulls the car to the side of the road and cuts the engine. We step out of the car and stand in front of the house, taking in our surroundings. Not a person in sight. Dean leads the way up the brick steps leading to the door.

"Should we knock?" says Dean.

"Why wouldn't we knock?" I say.

"I was just asking!"

Dean knocks on the door. No answer. We knock again.

"Maybe he's not home," suggests Sam.

"No way," says Dean. "Paranoid people never leave the house unless they're in dire need of supplies. He's home. He just doesn't want to answer."

"How do you know that, Dean?" I say.

"I—that's not important. Let's go."

Dean opens the door and steps inside. "Hello?" he shouts in the darkness.

Sam and I follow him inside, closing the door behind us.

"Hello?" Sam says. "Anybody here?"

A light turns on behind us. We spin around the find a man who appears to be in mid-fifties with graying hair and glasses sitting in a chair. He also hasn't shaved in a while. He holds a shotgun in his lap, pointed right at us. I raise my hands, Sam and Dean doing the same.

"Well, well," he says slowly. "Spider caught some flies." He laughs, and then more seriously asks, "Who are you people?"

"Uh well, I'm Sam, that's Evelyn, and this is my brother, Dean."

"Who sent you? The NSA? The FEEB? March of Dimes?"

He _is_ paranoid.

"Uh, Phil Coulson sent us," Dean says.

Frank gets up and cocks the gun, a furious look in his eyes. We raise our hands higher.

"Or not! Who?" Deean exclaims.

"H-he said you could help us!" Sam says. "Said you owe him. For, um, Port Huron?"

Frank hesitates and then lowers the gun, making a face.

"Guy saves your life one time and, what, you owe him the rest of yours?"

"That's usually how it works, yeah," says Dean.

Frank raises his gun at him. Dean raises his hands, again.

Sam steps forward. "We need your help. Coulson said you could provide us with camouflaged weapons and gadgets."

Frank sighs. "This way," he mutters.

We follow him into another room. Weapons and gadgets of every kind litter the table and walls.

"I assume this is for a mission of sorts, eh?" Frank says.

We nod our heads.

"Hmph. Then you'll need these." He tosses us each a gadget. We each have a different everyday looking item. Dean, an MP3 player; Sam, an old hand held game; and me, a hair brush.

"Pretty average looking, right?" says Frank.

"Yeah." I shrug.

"Press the small button," he instructs.

We do as he says. A latch opens up where small knife stays hidden. I take it out and examine the blade. Small, but sharp.

"They won't be much to defend yourselves with—I have knives for that—but these are in case you need to get your hands free. You know, in case you come across any . . . sticky situations," Frank says.

He gives us an assortment of weapons that we can easily hide in our clothing. He gives me a pair of special bobby pins that can unlock almost anything. I guide them in my hair. He also provides us each with special boots with knives hidden in the soles. He gives Sam and Dean dog collar necklaces. One of the tags on the necklace slides open. After that, you have five seconds to throw it before it detonates in a small explosion.

"These are pretty clever. And covert," Sam says.

"Well they didn't call me a weapons expert for nothing," Frank huffs.

"Thank you," I say, "for helping us."

"No problem," he says. "You owe me five grand. Cash."

"What?" says Sam and Dean each say.

"Unless you want to encounter dangerous people unprepared, sweet cheeks. Say hi to the morgue for me!"

We exchange glances.

"Okay," says Frank, "I suggest you come up with new identities for yourselves."

"We already did," I say.

"Perfect! Then my job is done." He sticks his hand out and opens his palm, expecting his payment.

"Coulson will send you a check," Dean says.

"Fine. Just get out of here before someone sees you."

He ushers us out the door and slams it behind us. I hear several locks click into place.

"Well, that was interesting," says Dean.

Sam and I murmur our agreement. We climb down the steps and get into the car.

"How do we get to Fort Mason, Sammy?"

Sam looks at the map. "Turn around and take a right onto Van Ness. Should be right along the Pier."

Dean starts the car and turns us around. We aren't driving very long before I see a person standing in the road ahead of us. A second and third person come out of the shadows to stand behind the first.

"Um, Dean?" I say.

"Yeah, I see them."

We come to a stop a few feet in front of them. The person in front walks over to the driver's side and bangs on the window. Dean turns the lights inside the car on and roles down his window. I shift forward to get a look at the person's face. I'm surprised by his youth. He looks no older than eighteen.

"Get out of the car," he says.


	23. Chapter 23

**I just want to thank everyone who has continued to review my story! It means so much to me! And don't worry, the action is coming! Enjoy the chapter! **

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"HEH. WELL, YOU are a handsome devil, but I don't swing that way, sorry," Dean says.

The boy sticks a gun in Dean's face. "That wasn't a request." He opens the door. "Now! All of you!"

"Okay! Okay," Dean says.

I get out of the opposite side of Sam and Dean and make my way over to stand beside them. The boy stands in front of us, holding us at gun point. He has dark brown hair cut close to his scalp. Definitely not Cyrus. He flicks his head at one of the other kids. A young boy—definitely no older than ten or eleven—steps forward to stand beside our captor. He looks like a younger version of the one with the gun.

"Pat them down," he instructs.

The boy does as he's told. He steps forward and starts patting us down, one by one. When he comes to me, he takes the hair brush out of my pocket and quickly examines it. I tense up, hoping he doesn't find the button and decide to press it, but all he does is shake his head and

give it back to me. I release a breath.

"They're clean," the boy says.

"State your names," the older one says. He looks at Dean.

"Young. Angus Young," says Dean.

"J-Jacob," Sam says.

"Alenna."

He drops the gun a little. "Where did you find a working car?"

"We came from Oakland," I say quickly. "Stole it."

"Well, you won't need it anymore." He motions for the third person to come forward. Another boy comes forward. He has shaggy dark brown hair and also holds a gun in his hand. He gets in the driver's seat and drives the car away.

"Hey, that's our car!" Dean says, stepping forward.

The boy shoves Dean back. "Stay back!"

"What are you my mother? Bite me!"

The boy moves forward and gets in Dean's face. He narrows his eyes and says, "You should show me some respect."

"Show you some respect?" retorts Dean, "Yeah, when hell freezes over."

The boy smiles. It's a cruel, wicked smile, and then shoves his fist into Dean's stomach. I can hear the breath leave his lungs. Dean slumps over, holding an arm around his middle.

"Do you know who I am?!" shouts the boy, angrily.

"Do you know who I am?" Dean wheezes.

They boy looks taken about by his question. "No?" he answers.

Dean stands back up, his breathing a little ragged. "Then we're even!"

"Asher!" the boy yells. I can tell his patience is wearing thin.

The younger boy steps forward from where he's been lingering. "What is it?" he asks.

"Here," he hands Asher another gun. "We're taking them back to camp."

"Back to camp? Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Cyrus and Lilith will want to see them."

I perk up at the mention of Cyrus and Lilith.

_So these two are some of the street_ _kids._

He turns his attention back to us. "You three, start moving." He shoves us forward and keeps his gun pressed against Sam's back. Asher leads the front of our group.

I can't help but think how getting captured actually made our job of finding the street kids a little easier. But, what happens if they don't let us in? I catch Dean's eye and give him a look. I warned him about us having a backup plan in case things didn't go as we originally planned. Dean rolls his eyes at me.

We walk for a good fifteen or twenty minutes before we come to a huge, decrepit warehouse. High above us on the warehouse wall are the words: FORT MASON. The words are faded and you can barely read them. Jameson was right about this place being their current hideout.

Asher leads us to a door hidden behind a large dumpster. The older boy shoves Sam forward so the three of us stand in front of him. Asher knocks briskly on the door four times, then slower two times, and then kicks the door twice. A moment later, the door opens a crack.

"You guys sure took long enough," says a female voice.

"Just let us in!" the older one says.

The girl closes the door. I hear a few hatches unlock before she opens it again. Asher steps inside and we follow. It's cold inside and hard to see. The only light available comes from a few lit candles. Asher leads us up a stairwell until we reach the top floor.

"Watch them," the older boy instructs.

Asher moves to the side of and keeps his gun pointed at us. The older boy walks forward to another door and knocks. He steps back and waits.

A couple minutes later, the door opens. I immediately recognize both Cyrus and Lilith. They're much more ragged looking than in their pictures, but still two very attractive individuals. I can't help but think how much a shame it is that they chose to lead this kind of life. We could have used their skills and knowledge back in Sector 4.

"These are the ones you were telling me about?" Cyrus says.

"Found them driving along Van Ness. They claim they're from Oakland and stole the car," the boy replies.

Cyrus nods his head and then turns his attention to us. "What brings you to Sector Two? Nobody enters this city without my knowing about it."

I hope for our sake he doesn't. Otherwise, that means he would know about Jameson and his team. For all I know, we've already been made.

Sam speaks up. "We're looking for a place to live. We're tired of all the rules and laws. We want to make it on our own. Do what we want, when we want."

Cyrus considers this a moment. "Do you know how to do anything? You know, have any skills that could be useful?"

"We know a little about a lot of things," I say. "Just enough to make us dangerous."

Cyrus scrutinizes us with narrowed eyes. I try not to let my anxiety show. Lilith whispers something into Cyrus's ear and he nods his head.

"If you would excuse us for a moment," Lilith says.

She, Cyrus, and the older boy walk into the room that Cyrus and Lilith came out of and shut the door.

Dean, obviously running out of patience, begins looking around the room we're in. Against a wall on the far side of the room is a table with a few medical dummies laying on a table. Dean walks over to the table. I glance at Asher who still keeps his gun on us.

"Check it out," says Dean, picking up a plastic heart out of one the dummies. "This thing's friggin' awesome!" Sam and I walk over to him. Dean hands the heart to Sam. "Be my Valentine?"

"Dude, we're working. Put it back," Sam says quietly.

"Have a heart!"

"Dean!"

I laugh a little and glance at Asher. I can tell he's trying to suppress a smile. I smile at him and walk over. He lifts the gun higher in front of him. I raise my hands and say, "It's okay, I'm not gonna do anything. It's Asher, right?"

He nods his head.

"How old are you?" I ask.

"Eleven. But I'll be twelve soon."

I'm about to reply to him when the door opens. Sam and Dean walk over to stand next to me. Cyrus holds up a picture and asks, "Have you ever seen this guy?"

I tense up, hoping the recognition doesn't show on my face. The man in the picture is Jason Ambrose.

"Nope, never seen that dick," Dean says.

"If you've never seen him, how do you know he's a dick?" asks Cyrus suspiciously.

"He looks like one."

I look at Dean. What happened to our plan of wanting to take Ambrose down with them?

"I'm ready to make you three an offer. How would you like to join our group? We're looking for more people like you," Cyrus says.

"And why would we want to join you guys?" says Sam, obviously playing along with Dean.

"Because we all want the same thing," Lilith says.

"Oh, yeah? And what's that?" says Sam.

"Freedom from rules and laws and the ones who makes them. This man," Lilith grabs the picture from Cyrus, "is Jason Ambrose. He's trying to overtake our Sector and make it his territory."

"This man is responsible for the murder of my parents," Cyrus interjects. "He's also responsible for that disease that has killed so many. I'm sure you've heard of it. Why do you think this city is so empty?"

The three of us exchange glances.

"We're in," says Dean.

Cyrus nods his head and motions for the older boy to step forward. "This is Aramis, my enforcer." Asher goes to stand next to Aramis. "And that's Asher, his younger brother."

I glance at Dean and see something shift in his eyes.

"If you would follow me, I'll introduce you to the rest of our group," says Lilith.

She starts for the stairs and begins walking down them. I take that as our cue to follow her. Aramis and Asher trail behind us; Cyrus stays behind.

We reach the bottom level and make a right into a long hallway. At the end of the hallway is a set of double doors. Lilith walks through the doors and leads us into a huge room. Numerous couches are spread around the room as well as tables and chairs. A small group of four kids stand huddled around one of the tables. Lilith leads us over toward them.

"Listen up!" she says. The kids turn toward us. They all look to vary in ages from fifteen to seventeen. Not much older or younger than us. Besides Dean, anyways.

"Everyone, I want you to welcome the newest members of our group. They're gonna help us ice Ambrose."

Murmurs arise from the group of kids.

"Why don't you introduce yourself to everyone?" Lilith says.

The kids cross their arms.

"I'm Jacob," Sam says, "and this is Alenna and Angus."

Lilith points to the boy who took our car. "That's Alex," then she gestures to the rest of the kids, "and that's Sarah, Vetch, and Aaron. The one guarding the door is Lena."

"It's nice to meet you guys," Sam says.

Dean and I nod our heads at them.

"I'm going to have to excuse myself. Cyrus and I need to discuss some things. Please, make yourself at home. Get to know everyone," Lilith says, and then walks back out the door.

Aramis, Asher, Vetch, Sara, Aaron, and Alex all watch us with curious eyes.

After a few moments of awkward silence, they all go back to talking to each other. I walk over to one of the couches and take a seat. Sam and Dean do the same. Asher walks over to the other kids and tries to talk to them, but they ignore him or push him out of the way. He stands off to the side, a look of loneliness in his eyes. He looks at his brother, but Aramis just ignores him. I can tell he's much more interested in us. Asher takes a seat on one of the other couches and tucks his hands between his legs.

Sam and Dean begin quietly talking amongst each other, so I decide to get to know Asher. I get up and go sit down next to Asher.

"Hey," I say.

He looks at me and says, "Hi."

"So how long have you been here?"

Asher shrugs. "A year or so."

"So Aramis is your brother, huh?"

"Yeah."

"I have a brother," I decide to tell him.

Asher turns his body toward me. "You do?"

"Well, I had a brother but um, he died. From that weird disease that's been going around."

"Oh. I'm sorry," he says.

"It's okay, it was a while ago."

"Oh." We sit in silence for a few minutes, and then Asher asks, "So you guys came from Oakland?"

"Yep. We sure did."

"That's where I was born"

"What happened to your parents?" I ask him.

"They died," he says, with downcast eyes.

Before I can say something, Cyrus and Lilith come through the doors and head toward us. Everyone in the room stops talking and turn their attention toward them. I notice Aramis doesn't take his eyes off of Sam, Dean, and me.

Cyrus addresses us, "We're going to split into two teams and go on a scouting mission. We're looking for Ambrose's warehouse. Report back here in two hours."

Lilith steps forward. "Aramis Vetch, Lena, Asher, and Alenna will be group one, and Aaron, Sarah, Alex, Cyrus, and Jacob will be the second group. I will stay behind and keep guard."

"What about me?" asks Dean.

Cyrus hands Dean a picture of a man. "I want you to canvas Van Ness Street for this man. Ask around about him. It's imperative we find him."

"Gotcha," says Dean.

"All right, let's move out," Cyrus says.

I begin following my group out the doors when Sam comes up behind me.

"Aramis doesn't trust us," he whispers in my ear, and then walks ahead with his group.

I steel a glance at Aramis. Sam's right—he doesn't trust us. And he'll be watching us like a hawk.


	24. Chapter 24

**AN: Hey everybody! I am _SO _sorry it has taken me this long to update. I've had a lot of things going on in my life right now that has had to take priority over this, unfortunately. So currently, Coalesce will be on hiatus. I do feel guilty though because while I was at school a month or two ago a plot bunny attacked me for another story. So I took a break from this and started writing that instead. It's on FictionPress, and I think I like it better than this story. Don't worry though, I'm not abandoning Coalesce. Updates will just be every so often. **

**I'm thinking this story will be split into two parts, with Part 1 coming to a close around 30 chapters. I'm not super proud of this chapter and I'm sorry it's a little slow and boring. The next six or seven chapter will be picking up. Remember what I said about me loving plot twists? Oh yeah. Prepare yourselves.  
**

**Well, without further adieu, here is Chapter Twenty-Four!  
**

* * *

ASHER AND I walk side by side together in silence. We hang back a bit from the rest of the group as Aramis leads us through the dark and seemingly empty streets of Sector 2. As soon as we left the warehouse, everyone walked a head to be next to each other. The only person who stayed by me was Asher.

I peak a glance at him. He has that young boyish quality that makes him appear much younger than he actually is. His hair is short and such a dark brown it almost looks black.

I think about what Sam told me as we were leaving. Maybe Asher can tell me a little about his brother.

"So what's your brother like?" I gesture at Aramis.

Asher shrugs. "Like a brother, I guess."

I purse my lips. "Are you two . . . close?"

Asher scoffs. "What siblings are close?"

I stifle a laugh and think of Sam and Dean. I also think of Todd.

"Well, I was close to my brother," I tell him.

Asher is silent for a moment. "I don't know. Aramis is bossy and . . . cold. He's brutal, too. But he never used to be like that."

"When did he change?"

"Shortly after we joined Cyrus and Lilith." I open my mouth to reply but he beats me to it. "I hate it here."

I shut my mouth. There's bitterness in his eyes that I hadn't seen before. "Why's that?" I finally ask.

Asher takes his time responding. Finally, he says, "Because all everyone is obsessed with is Ambrose. They _hate _him and Agents. Two guys showed up in the Sector the other week. We brought them in like we did with you guys but Cyrus instinctively _knew_ they were Agents. Cyrus had Aramis kill them as soon as he saw them."

I almost stop walking. Coulson and Jameson neglected to tell us that vital piece of information. Had we known that, I guarantee we would have approached the mission in a different way.

"And," Asher goes on, "nobody likes me. They call me names like runt and useless. Aramis doesn't even stop them or stick up for me."

"Why don't you just leave the group, then?"

"Where would I go?" he says hopelessly.

I look at Asher. Along with that bitterness is utter loneliness. I feel a pang of sympathy for the boy.

"Well," I say, "I like you. And I don't think you're useless."

"You really mean that?" he says in a small, hopeful voice.

I smile at him. "Definitely."

A few hours have passed since we left the warehouse. We've checked empty building one after the other for signs of Ambrose. The cold air makes me shiver. It must be sometime after two in the morning.

Asher opened up to me. He told me about his life before the group and how he and his brother were barely scraping by. Aramis never passed his trial, so they lived a life of poverty. Guess it wouldn't have made much of a difference, anyways. Sector 2 is such an ungoverned abandoned wasteland as it is.

He also tells me that both his parents came down with the strange disease and died. He was only seven at the time. We bond over the fact both of us have lost someone we love to the plaque sickness.

Another hour passes before Aramis announces that we head back for the night. I can't help but feel relieved. Sleep sounds so marvelous right now.

By the time we make it back to the warehouse, I am struggling to keep my eyes open and I can tell Asher is feeling the same.

When we reach the warehouse, Aramis knocks on the door, a different code from the one before. The door opens and we walk inside. Aramis immediately climbs the stairs to Cyrus and Lilith's quarters.

I follow Asher into the main room with the others. Sam and the rest of his group are already there. I automatically walk to Sam and throw my arms around him. I can feel his own arms around my body.

"Are you okay?" he asks, concern laced in his voice.

"I'm fine," I breathe against his neck. "Just tired." I pull back and whisper in his ear. "Did you check in with Jameson?"

"No," he whispers back. "Dean is going to do that."

"Good." I pull back and kiss him on the lips.

He kisses me back and, for a moment, we get lost in each other. Asher clears his throat. I wasn't aware he had followed me over.

"Sorry," I mumble.

"It's fine," Asher says awkwardly.

"Oh, Lilith brought us sleeping bags," Sam says, gesturing to the bags on the ground.

"Yes!" I say. "Sleeping bags. Sleep." I collapse on my bag. Sam sits down on the bag across from me. I open my eyes and look at Asher. He folds his hands behind his back and shuffles his feet awkwardly. "Hey, Asher." He looks at me. "Why don't you bring your sleeping bag over here? You can hang out with Jacob, Angus, and me."

Asher's eyes light up. He nods his head and runs off to gather his stuff.

"Seems like you've taken to him," Sam says.

"I feel bad for him. The others treat him like crap. Even his own brother. He just wants a friend, that's all."

"I understand, but, how's he going to feel when we turn on everyone?" Sam whispers.

I contemplate this, and for a moment I feel guilt gnawing in the pits of my stomach. But then I remember Asher's words and his expressed distaste for the group. "Maybe he won't," I say, half to myself.

Asher returns with his sleeping bag and lays it out next to mine. Sam exchanges a look with me. I shrug my shoulders. He gives me another look which says, _don't get too close._ I shoot him a look and he sighs. I smile and lay my head on my pillow.

The three of us talk with each other for a while. My eyes fall on the empty sleeping bag next to Sam. I frown.

"Shouldn't Angus be back by now?" I say.

Sam doesn't reply.

"He may be back already. Maybe Lilith and Cyrus are talking to his assignment," Asher suggests.

I let myself consider that option instead of the alternative.

A few minutes pass in silence when the doors open. Dean looks around the room until he spots us and makes his way over. I estimate that it must be sometime after four in morning. As far as I know, Dean hasn't slept in almost twenty-four hours.

"Well," says Sam when Dean reaches us, "how'd it go?"

Dean drops onto his sleeping bag and pulls out the guy's mug and another piece of paper.

"I spent all night canvasing this stupid street with this guy's stupid mug and apparently he drinks at this stupid bar." He gestures at the other piece of paper.

I read the name on the paper and take note of the bar called Hard Rock.

"What did Cyrus and Lilith say?" presses Sam.

Dean looks tiredly at him. "Nothing much. They were pretty vague."

"Sounds like them," mutters Asher.

"You should sleep, D-Angus," I say.

"Damn straight," he says, making himself comfortable on top the sleeping bag. "Screw consciousness, that's what I say." Not a minute passes and he's already snoring.

I smile and get comfortable in my own bag. Sam and Asher do the same, as do most of the other kids.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I'm anxious about what the morning will bring. I push the thoughts from my mind and settle into a dark, dreamless sleep.

I awaken to Sam shaking my shoulder.

"Up and at 'em," he says.

I groan and cover my face with my hands. I feel like I had just closed my eyes.

"What time is it?" I say groggily.

"A little before eight," Sam says.

Great. There's nothing like functioning on four hours of sleep give or take. I sit up and take in my surroundings.

Asher leads Sam to the food storage where the other kids are collecting their breakfast. Dean sits on his sleeping bag, arms folded across his chest and an intense look of concentration on his face.

"What are you doing?" I ask him.

"I'm thinking," he replies.

I stare at hi a moment. His look doesn't change. "Don't strain yourself."

"Screw you."

"Well, aren't you a bucket of sunshine."

He looks at me and sighs. "Sorry. It's just . . . something isn't right."

This wakes me up a bit. "What do you mean?"

He looks around the room and then moves closer to me. "Come on, Evelyn! You're a perceptive one! I'm talking about Cyrus and Lilith. Doesn't it seem a little odd to you how willing they were to accept us into the group?"

"Um, well yeah, I guess it's a little odd. I kind of figure they just really want to ice Ambrose, though."

Dean sighs. "Obviously! But come on, dig deeper than that. We know that both Cyrus and Lilith were expertly trained agents. You're telling me that if you were in their positions, you would have accepted three random strangers into your group, all because you had an obsession with taking someone down?"

His words are making more sense now. Of course I wouldn't if I were in their positions. I would have the strangers contained until their story checked out. Something definitely isn't right here.

"We need to talk to Jameson. There's something he's not telling us and I don't think I like it. This whole mission just seems off. Now it may only be your first mission but I've been doing my job long enough to know when something isn't right."

"Off in what way?" I inquire.

"Well to start, the fact so little people know about this mission. No mission is ever this covert. Ever."

"You know," I say, "Asher told me they found two strangers a while ago. Cyrus had them executed on the spot because he could tell just by looking at them that they were agents. Who's to say they already know about us and are just waiting to strike?"

Dean's face grows grim. "We need to see Jameson. ASAP."

"Does Sam know about this?"

"He has his suspicions. I'll fill him, though. In the meantime just act normal. Play along like you would before."

"Done. So what's the plan, then?"

"I'll get back to you on that," he says. He gets up and walks across the room toward Sam and pulls him aside. I'm suddenly very aware of everyone around us.

"Are you okay?"

I startle and turn around. Asher holds a half-eaten apple in his hand.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

He walks closer and takes a seat next to me. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Y-yeah. Go ahead."

"If you ever decide to leave the group, can you take me with you guys?"

"What about your brother?"

Asher shrugs and looks down. "He doesn't need me around."

I have the sudden urge to spill everything to Asher. I want to rescue the boy from this hell he is living. Keeping these secrets from him is filling me with guilt. Perhaps I should tell him the truth.

"Asher, how do you feel about agents?"

"I have nothing against them. I actually always wanted to be one but, well, that obviously isn't going to happen," he says.

That settles it. This may be a really, really stupid idea, but it's worth a shot. I glance around the room for Sam and Dean and spot them off in a far corner.

I turn back to Asher. "Hey, is there anywhere we can go and talk privately?"

He looks confused by this. "Um, yeah there's a hallway just outside these doors that no one really us—"

I cut him off. "Great! Lead the way."

"Um, okay?" He gets up and walks toward the doors. I follow him out and we walk down a long, narrow stretch of space and then take a right into a dark hallway. A few lights dimly flicker on the ceiling and water drips from pipes along the walls. I crinkle my nose at the acerbic smell.

"So what is it that you want to talk about so privately?" Asher says.

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. "First off, I want you to know that I didn't lie. I really do like you Asher—which is why I'm going to tell you this."

"Tell me what?" he says cautiously.

"The truth. I've been lying to you about some things. Not about everything, just my name and where I came from."

He stares at me with a muddled look on his face.

"My real name is Evelyn Carter. Jacob's real name is Sam and Angus is really Dean. They're actually brothers. Anyways, we're here because we're on an undercover mission from Sector Four to take down Jason Ambrose and to bring in Cyrus and Lilith. They use to be the top agents in our Sector but went all Superman gone dark side. I'm telling you this because I don't want to lie to you anymore and if you want, I can get you out of here. I can get you a real life back in Sector Four."

Asher stares at me; his face completely blank.

"Well say something already!"

"I . . . can I help?"

"Help? Help with what?"

"I want to help you with your mission."

This was not the reaction I was expecting.

"You would be okay on turning on everyone? Even your own brother?"

"I've never belonged here. And if Cyrus and Lilith did something wrong then they should pay for it. Plus, Ambrose is responsible for the death of my parents. I _do_ want him to pay for it."

"Asher, you do understand how dangerous our situation is, right? If Cyrus and Lilith find out about this, they could kill us."

"I understand that. I just . . . I want to feel useful for once."

My heart clenches a little at his words. I turn around, rubbing my head.

"What's wrong?" he asks me.

"I just didn't think you would take this so well," I say.

"Honestly, I don't like the fact that I was being lied to. But I can tell that you guys are good people. The kids here, they're not. I don't want to be like them."

I turn back to look at him and contemplate everything he's told me. I finally come to a decision. I can find about a hundred things wrong with what I'm about to say.

"Okay," I say slowly, "you can help us."

His eyes light up. "I swear I won't give anything away. Thank you!"

He puts his arms around me. I hug him back and awkwardly pat his back. He's almost like the little sibling I always wanted. I never liked being the youngest.

I clear my throat. "We should get back to the group before they realize we're missing."

"Right," he says, and releases me from his embrace. He turns around and starts walking back, practically skipping in his steps.

I laugh and shake my head. That was much easier than I thought it would be. I just hope I didn't hand the boy a death sentence.


	25. Chapter 25

**AN: This chapter is for my special guest reviewer. I'm sorry that I have kept you hanging for so long. I really appreciate your devotion and enthusiasm for my story! I hope you find this chapter satisfying! And as an extra little reward I promise that there will be another chapter uploaded tomorrow. For sure. Especially since I already have it written. It just needs edited. I hope you enjoy this chapter! It's a long one. I started on this around 7:30 and it's almost 2 am now. So if there are any grammar or typing or whatever mistakes this is why. I'm also pretty sure that FanFiction mysteriously deletes words once I upload the document...Took me a long time to write and then type up and I am up way past my bedtime just to get it uploaded. But I owe it to you guys. **

**Now, I'm a little proud of this chapter. This chapter (and the next one) isn't as fleshed out as I would like but I'm kind of lazy so this is what I'm settling for. Oh well! **

**Now, onward with the fic!**

* * *

"We need to talk."

Sam and Dean halt their conversation and give me their undivided attention. Asher hides behind me, wary of how Sam and Dean will react to his persistence to help.

"Here?" Dean asks, hinting to Asher's presence.

"He's the reason why," I say, pulling Asher around so he stands directly by my side.

"Oh?" Sam says, a knowing glint in his eyes. Dean just crosses his arms and motions for me to talk.

"I told him the truth."

"The truth about what?" Dean says slowly, his eyes narrowing.

"Everything."

Sam seems to nod to himself as if he saw this coming and was just waiting for it to happen. Dean, on the other hand, looks confused.

"Wh-what?" he finally says.

"You heard me," I say, crossing my arms and daring him to challenge me about it. He does anyway.

"And what . . . compelled you to do that?" he says, obviously trying to remain composed for Asher's benefit.

"He wants to help us with the mission," I state as if it's obvious.

"And you believe him—trust _him_?" Dean says, beginning to lose his cool.

"Yes, I do as a matter of fact."

Dean opens his mouth to say something but Sam cuts him off. "If Evelyn trusts him than so do I."

_Thank you,_ I mouth. He gives me a small smile in return.

Dean laughs. "You know what? Fine, _whatever_. We're probably doomed anyways."

I frown at Dean's pessimism.

"You can trust me," Asher says, now standing in front of me to look Dean straight in the eyes.

They hold eye contact for a couple minutes before Dean says, "Alright, but the moment you prove otherwise will not be pleasant for you kid."

"Understood," Asher says.

Sam clasps his hands together and says, "Great! Now we have bigger matters that need discussing at the moment."

"Right," I say, relieved about the dissipating tension. "I'm assuming you filled Sam in on your suspicions?"

"Yeah, he agrees with me."

"Good, then we're all on the same page."

Sam and Dean nod their heads.

"Well, you know, except _me_," Asher says.

Dean steps forward and grasps Asher's shoulders, leading him away from Sam and I.

"C'mon little man, I'll fill you in. And remember what said about trust . . ."

"Have you eaten yet?" Sam asks.

"No," I say, heading toward the food storage. Most of the kids are already done with their breakfasts.

Sam puts a hand on my shoulder, successfully stopping me. "I'll get you something; just wait here, okay?"

"All right."

He walks off and I sit down on my sleeping bag, observing everyone in the giant room. I take a mental note that Aramis's presence is absent. He must be with Cyrus and Lilith. When my eyes drift over to the food storage my mouth drops at the sight. A skinny blonde girl—Sarah? I think that's her name—has her hands all over Sam, who gently removes her hands from his body but they immediately find another place to rest. His shoulder, his arm, his neck, his—whoa! I scramble to my feet and run over to the pair.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?!" I say incredulously, shoving her away.

"What's it to you, bitch?" she says angrily.

"I couldn't help but notice your filthy hands all over _my_ boyfriend!" I shout back at her.

"Your boyfriend, huh?" She walks forward until she's standing face-to-face with me, her eyes skimming over my body. She smirks and says, "We'll see about that." She winks at Sam before sauntering away.

A few of the kids who had stopped to watch throw a smirk in my direction before continuing with the previous activities.

"Okay, I could kick her ass ten ways from Sunday," I say, turning back to Sam who wears an amused expression on his face.

"What?!"

He shrugs. "Nothing. You're just cute when you get all flustered."

I quickly glance around the room and take advantage of the few remaining stares, Sarah being one of them. I shoot her a glare and grab Sam's arm, pulling him away.

"Flustered? I'll show you flustered."

"Whoa, what about your breakfast?"

"I'm hungry for something else."

I don't miss Sarah's glare as we go through a door and down a dim hallway.

"Nice performance in there," Sam says.

"It should buy us enough time to get to Jameson and back."

"Shouldn't we tell Dean?"

"I made sure there were witnesses as we walked out. I'm sure they'll fill Dean in when he asks about our disappearance. He'll know what we're really up to."

Sam nods and studies me for a moment.

"What is it?" I ask him quietly.

"You seem a little bothered. Care to tell me why?"

I wave a dismissive hand at his words and say, "It's nothing."

Sam grabs my arms and pulls me toward hi, tucking a strange of hair behind my ear.

"Nothing, huh?"

I focus my attention on a loose thread on his jacket and sigh. "I dunno, just didn't look like you were very quick getting Sarah to stop touching you. She was practically molesting you, after all!"

Sam chuckles softly and puts a hand under my chin, tilting my head up to look at him.

"I only have eyes for you," he says softly before pressing his lips to mine. He pulls away and I sigh. "Now as much as I would love to continue this we're on a bit of a time constraint."

"Right! We should get moving."

It takes us longer than I would have liked to find our way out of the warehouse but soon we're already stealthily making our way across the deserted streets of Sector 2. Only one destination in our mind: Jameson.

Soon enough we find ourselves in front of the crumbling parking garage. Sam and I exchange glances before entering the dimly lit building. We find the staircase and make our way to the fourth level, being careful not to cause too much noise.

Sam knocks on the metal dour with a faded four on the front. It opens and a man appears.

"Please state your full name and identity number," the man says in a monotone voice.

"Sam Matthews. Agent 124-792-B."

"Evelyn Carter. Agent 435-108-E."

He checks something on his portable device before ushering us inside.

"Evelyn, Sam, I'm a little more than surprised to see you two here."

Jameson steps out from behind a wall and narrows his eyes at us. I have to stop myself from cringing at his piercings and lack of hair hygiene.

"We need to speak with you," Sam says.

"And what's wrong with using the ear pieces I provided you with?" he says, annoyance evident in his tone.

"We've come to voice some concerns we have," I say. "Better if we do this face-to-face."

"Okay, you have my undivided attention," Jameson says, folding his arms across his chest.

"Something just seems . . . _off_," Sam Says, crossing his own arms. "Seems a little odd how _willing_ Cyrus and Lilith accepted us into their good graces; seems a little _strange _ how covert this whole mission is."

Jameson opens his mouth to reply when another voice cuts him off: "you're right, Agent Matthews."

We look around for the voice's owner before a man steps out of the shadows. My eyes widen a bit at this unexpected shock.

"Coulson?"

"Hello, Agent Carter."

"Why aren't you in Sector Four?" I say.

"I'm here to help the mission run smoothly. Congratulations on the good instincts. I suspect Agent Matthews's brother had something to do with that?"

He takes our silence as the queue to move on.

"You're right to feel this way, but be assured that everything is going according to plan."

"Why do I get the feeling that you're hiding something from us?" Sam says.

"All in good time, Agent Matthews. Now, please, get back to Cyrus and Lilith before they suspect something amiss." He waves a hand at a couple of guys to escort us out. I catch an exchanged look between Coulson and Jameson before being promptly turned around pushed towards the door.

Dissatisfied with our visit we leave. One look at Sam and I know he feels the same as I do. All feelings of something wrong have increased ten-fold. We just have to talk to Dean and decide our next plan of action from there. Bottom line: I'm not happy with how things are happening. Jameson and Coulson are definitely keeping secrets. Secrets which I have every intention of seeking the answers to. Dean, Sam and I are putting our lives on the line for this mission and I don't appreciate my life—or Sam and Dean's for that matter—being toyed with.

We head back to Cyrus and Lilith's warehouse as fast as we can; climbing in the same busted window we used to get out. I stop Sam from entering the room with all the other kids.

"What?" he says.

"Wait a sec." I vigorously rub my hand through his hair until I am satisfied with its messiness and un-tuck part of his shirt. Something is missing . . . I step forward and press my body against his and kiss him. We kiss passionately for a few moments before I pull away. "There, that should do."

"Not that I'm objecting, but what was all that about?"

"Oh, just making it look like we had some fun," I say, making my hair into a messy pony tail. "I can tell you one thing, though—I _am_ flustered."

He chuckles a little and opens the door. I walk inside and stop. The street kids sit huddled together in a group and snap their heads in our direction upon Sam and I's entrance. I spot Asher among them—though a bit off to the side—as they narrow their eyes suspiciously at us. I look around for Dean and spot him on the far side of the room, a look of agitation in his features.

"Did we miss something?" I say to Dean once we reach him.

"Please tell me you got something," Dean says, almost pleadingly.

"You mean besides a whole new level of frustration? No," Sam says. "something just isn't right about this. All of it."

"Coulson is here," I add.

"Son of a bitch," says Dean under his breath. "Dammit, Sam this whole thing is spinning out of control!"

"Dean, what's wrong?" Sam asks worriedly.

He turns to us, a hind of panic in his voice. "I think we've been made."

Before I can respond the doors open, revealing Aramis, Cyrus, and Lilith. Cyrus points at the other kids and motions for them to leave. They reluctantly do so, Asher shooting us a concerned glance before disappearing with the group.

"Did you three honestly think you could fool _me_?" Cyrus says, coming to stand in front of us.

"Well, is it just me, or do you three seem a tad upset?" Dean says.

"Do you want to die?" Cyrus seethes at him.

I gulp.

"Sam, Evelyn," Dean says quietly, "run."

We don't need to be told twice. We each take off in different directions and head for the door. Fortunately their time on the streets has weakened them a bit and we're able to make it to the door. We bolt past the other kids and sprint down the dark hallway. I hear shouts and pounding footsteps behind us, urging us on all the faster. Sam and I lead Dean to the broken window and we sprint away from the warehouse as fast as our feet will take us. We run the opposite way of Coulson and Jameson and weave our way around trash and other debris.

We round a corner onto another street and skid to a halt. A semi-large crowd of people cluster the road, the majority of them circled around some form of commotion further down the street; their fists raised in the air as they whoop and cheer.

"Let's split up!" Dean yells.

Sam and I nod our heads and take off into the crows. I spare a glance behind us and watch as some of the street kids veer off from the others in pursuit of Dean.

I follow Sam as we dodge our way in and out of the crowd. We come across some type of vendor and dodge behind the tables in hope of concealing ourselves from our pursuers. Despite the commotion and chaos around us I can still hear the shouts and threats coming from the street kids as they search for us. I peer around the table and lock eyes with Asher. He nods his head at me and then whistles to get the other kids' attention.

"They went this way!" he shouts, leading them in the opposite direction.

"We owe that kid big time," Sam says.

"Let's go," I say, running into the crowd of people.

"We're pushed and shoved until we find ourselves at the center of what's holding the crowd's attention. Some type of street fight is going on, bringing forth whoops and hollers from the crowd as bets are being made.

From what I can tell the fight is largely unfair. A large, brawny woman holds a smaller, frail looking girl in her fist; wailing on her face. The other girl has her skinny arms up in lousy attempt to defend herself from the nasty blows being dealt upon her. The small girl somehow gains the upper hand and gives the larger woman a roundhouse kick to the head, successfully freeing herself. The small girl turns around, her eyes wide and full of terror. I feel my own eyes widen in shock. Despite the dirt and mud that covers her I recognize the girl.

_Emilee_.

A strangled gasp escapes my throat, "S-Sam! It's Emilee!"

Sam's eyes widen in realization as he watches Emilee attempt to escape the fighting ring. She's rewarded with a sharp kick to the stomach, a man yelling something about no leaving until the fight is finished.

"We have to help her!"

Sam digs around in his jacket pockets and pulls out a tiny silver canister.

"What is that?"

"Smoke bomb. Frank gave it to me," Sam says, releasing the trigger and throwing it into the fighting ring. "Let's go!"

We rush forward as smoke begins to fill the clearing. People immediately begin to could and disperse. By the time we reach Emilee she's collapsed on the ground, the other woman on top of her. Sam delivers a nasty kick to her face, successfully knocking her out. I pick Emilee off the ground and pull her away from the crowd.

"E-Evelyn?" I've never seemed someone look so relieved before.

"We're gonna get you out of here, okay?"

She nods her head and we start running. The same man who kicked her sharply before grabs her am and yells for the fight to be finished. She struggles to free herself and the man yanks her from my grip. A scream erupts from Emilee's throat when Sam knocks this guy out too. I grab a hold of Emilee and begin pulling her along again.

We finally escape the crowd and find ourselves on an unoccupied street. We stop and catch our breath, our bodies trembling from adrenaline.

"H-how are you in the Sector?" I say breathlessly.

"Coulson," Emilee says, her voice hoarse and weak.

I open my mouth to ask her to elaborate but Sam stops me.

"We can talk about this later, right now we need to find some place safe lay low. Then we can ask questions, okay?"

We nod our heads in agreement and begin searching for a place to hide. I rip a piece of my shirt and hand it to Emilee to help staunch her nose bleed. I wince at the sight of her and wrap my arm around her shoulder. Emilee should not be here. Period. And I swear that the next time I see Coulson there will be hell to pay.


	26. Chapter 26

**AN: So, as promised, here is another chapter! I would have had it uploaded earlier but there was an emergency with my horse. Poor guy injured himself. I swear horses-and especially Thoroughbreds-purposefully seek out ways to give you heart attacks.  
**

**I also totally wrote this chapter back in April or May. I have 2 or 3 other chapters I wrote out ahead of time as well. Don't know why. I just felt compelled to write them is all.  
**

**Here's a random fact about Coalesce: The whole intent and purpose of this story was inspired by music. The Dark Knight, War Horse, Pearl Harbor, and Mission: Impossible II scores to be more specific. Movies scored are epic that way.**

**Well, anyways, I won't keep you waiting any longer. Onward!  
**

* * *

The air grows damp and cold, triggering my need to clutch my arms tighter around my abdomen, a vain attempt at trapping any lasting warmth that threatens to leak from my body. The three of us trudge down a dark street with mud squelching underneath our feet. This area use to be a bay—or so I'm told—but is now a marshland. I try not to jump at every sound, but it's hard when you know you have a mob of angry street kids who call for your blood on your trail. Sam's constant presence beside me is comforting, though.

I peer behind me to check on Emilee. The longer we walk the farther behind she falls. Her arms are clutching her sides and she's shivering. It's hard trying not to think about how unsettling pale she looks and a fresh wave of anger washes over me, temporarily warming my sore body. Coulson should have never sent her here. _That bastard._

I step on a piece of wet wood and slip, almost face-planting in the mud if Sam didn't catch me before carefully balancing me again. I shoot him a grateful smile which he returns with a gentle squeeze of my shoulder. He must be thinking about Dean. I myself am wondering if he got away okay. _Of course he did_, I think. _It's Dean, after all._

One hour, two hours pass—I am not sure. My feet are dragging tiredly behind me. We need to find shelter soon before night falls. Judging by the sun's position in the sky it won't be much longer now. Plus, I'm worried about Emilee. What reason would Coulson have to send her here? How will she benefit the mission? The gears begin turning in my brain as I slowly draw a conclusion. Her presence wasn't needed here—Coulson knows that. She was purposefully sent here for a reason that I fear is much darker thank I want to admit. Perhaps there's a darker purpose for the whole mission itself.

I'm startled out of my thoughts as Emilee bursts into a coughing fit behind me. Before I can even ask if she's okay, she collapses to the ground.

"Emilee?" I say, rushing toward her.

I kneel on the ground beside her and Sam does the same. She coughs again and blood dribbles out of her mouth with tears cutting trails through the dust and dirt on her face. I look at her apprehensively and she motions to her stomach. At first I see nothing, but then I begin to barely make out a large circle that's slightly darker than the rest of her navy blue jacket.

I tentatively reach my shaking hand out, hovering for a few moments before gently pressing it to the spot. I frown. When I lift my hand away, my palm is sticky with blood. Releasing a shaky breath I quickly unzip her jacket and lift up her shirt to reveal her undershirt. It's soaked in her blood. My brain is slowly forming a conclusion—that man must have stabbed her when we were escaping the street fight.

I stare at the wound, wide-eyed, and try to ignore the tears pooling in my eyes. In my cloudy haze, I see Sam stand up and punch the collapsing building beside us.

"Dammit!" he says quietly.

Why is he angry? I don't understand. Emilee is going to be fine. She's fine, she's fine, she's fine. She'll be _fine_.

She coughs again and reaches her bloody hand toward me. "Evelyn," she breathes hoarsely.

I wipe my eyes and take her hand in both of mind and grip it tight, clearing my throat. "You're okay, you're okay." A tear falls from my eye.

I try to keep my emotions controlled, but it's too much. It's just too much. This isn't how things were supposed to happen. Emilee should be back with Eden and the rest of the gang, out of harm's way in Sector Four.

As Emilee's breathing grows rapid and shallow I know that deep down this is it. Emilee is going to die. But right now, I refuse to let it be true. I quietly listen to her breaths become slower and slower until suddenly, they stop all together. Her hand becomes limp in mine and her head falls to the side.

She's gone.

A sob escapes my mouth and then another. Squeezing my eyes shut I attempt the calm down by taking deep, shaking breaths. Catching sight of our joint hands I gently remove mine, taking her hands and clasping them together over her chest. Then I lean forward and kiss her forehead, my composure finally falling apart. Sobs rack my body one after the other. There's so much more I wanted to tell her; so many more things we had yet to do together.

"Evelyn," Sam says, but I ignore him, refusing to take my eyes off Emilee. I was supposed to save her. "Evelyn!" he says again. The urgency in his voice is enough to make me glance at him. He points down the alley and I look to wear he's pointing and squint; spotting the distant silhouettes of moving shapes and shadows followed the sound of distant voices.

Realization hits me like a ton of bricks and before I know it, I'm on my feet. Sam grabs my arm and gently tugs me away from Emilee.

"We have to go," he says urgently, shakily.

I spin around to face him. "We can't just leave her!" I say as loud as I dare, pulling my arm from his grip to kneel down beside her again.

Sam squats down beside me as tears fill my eyes. He tilts my head up to look at him, his eyes mirroring my own sadness and despair. "We don't have a choice," he says, his voice thick with emotion.

I look back at Emilee. The voices are getting louder, closer. Sam grabs my arm again but I stay planted where I am.

"Evelyn, please," he pleads.

He pulls again and this time I follow, running away from him, away from Emilee, and down the dark street.

"Left!" Sam says behind me.

I veer sharply to the left into a dark alley before skidding to a halt. A tall chain-link fence stretches in front of us. I would climb it, but barb-wire covers the top of the fence. Look desperately around us for somewhere to hide Sam steps onto a crate and peers through a window on the building to my left. He motions for me to come over. I peer into the window of what appears to be abandoned and empty; the perfect place to take shelter for the night.

Sam tells me to get down and cover my head before shoving his elbow into the glass, sending shards into the air around us. It will be a tight fit but we'll make it. He gives me a leg up and I crawl through the window and twist my body around, dropping to the floor and quickly dusting myself off. It's just as cold in here as it is outside.

I help Sam inside and together we find a piece of wood to cover the window. The last rays of sunlight outside dimly light the space around us. Sam walks to another window on the wall adjacent to us and peers outside, watching for any signs that we were spotted and followed.

I think about how we left Emilee in that street.

"I don't think we were spotted," Sam says. "It should be safe to—," he looks at me. "Evelyn?"

"We _left_ her there! We just left her there!" I shout. "How could we do that?"

"Evelyn," he says, walking toward me, "we didn't have a choice."

"We could have carried her with us! It's not like she would have slowed us down, she's tiny! She weighs like five pounds! It would have been fine! She would have been fine if I had just hadn't let that man grab her from me!"

I begin to sob again. My legs buckle underneath me and I collapse to the ground, burying my face in my hands and sobbing grossly. I can't keep going. I can't do this anymore. Emilee won't be the last one to die—that I can guarantee.

Sam kneels beside me and removes my hands from my face, taking both of them in his. I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Hey," he says gently, "look at me." I open my eyes and look at him. He gives me a sad smile. "Look, I know that—"

Before he can finish, there's a loud banging on a door we didn't see before. Sam looks at me once and puts a finger to his mouth before getting up and quietly walking to the door. I stay on the ground and take deep breaths. More frantic pounding.

"Sam! Let me in!"

Sam sighs and tries to open the door but it won't budge.

"I can't get it open, you're gonna have break it down!" Sam yells.

"Alright, genius let me just go grab my battering ram!" shouts Dean.

Sam sighs again and pulls hard on the door handle. It creaks and opens a few inches.

"Get back!" yells Dean.

Sam steps back and a moment later Dean kicks the door open and rushes inside, quickly closing the door behind him. Together they move an old table in front of it as an extra precaution.

"Woo!" says Dean. "I've been running forever!"

"How'd you find us?" asks Sam.

"Because I know you, Sammy," he says. He looks around the room before his eyes settle on me. He points at me and raises his eyebrows at Sam. "Are you guys okay?" he asks.

"Define 'okay'," Sam says.

Dean huffs and walks over to me. He kneels down and says, "Hey, are you okay?"

I motion with my finger for him to lean forward. Putting my mouth next to his ear I say, "Don't ask stupid questions."

"Fair enough," he says. He gets up and walks over to Sam. "What happened?"

Sam explains what happened after we were separated and Dean's face visibly darkens.

"Son of a bitch," he says quietly.

I let out a long breath and close my eyes again.

"Where did you, Dean?" says Sam.

"Well, after we got separated and swiftly losing my pursuers, I spent my time stalking the ones who went after you guys. I figured they'd lead me to you. Well, close to you, anyways. It's strange; they're coming straight for us, almost like they've got a contract on us. You think it's 'cause we're so awesome?"

Sam crosses his arms.

"I think it's 'cause we're so awesome."

"Could you tell who is tracking us?" asks Sam, a disapproving look on his face.

"Yeah, we've got Aramis, Vetch, Lena, and Lilith. There's the others too but I didn't see them."

Sam rubs his hands over his face and says, "This is bad."

"Gee you think, Sammy?"

Sam rolls his eyes and walks over to me. I offer him my hand and he helps me stand up.

"I'm okay, now," I say, though I don't entirely believe it myself.

"So, what's your plan?" Dean says, walking over to join us.

What's my plan—that's a good question. I don't entirely have one, but I do know that I need to stay calm and in control.

I have to.

* * *

**AN: Yeah, so...this was my first time writing a character death. I think it turned out alright. I wanted to flesh it out a bit more and draw this out a bit but...oh well. Anybody see this coming, or did I coming, or did I completely throw you through a loop? I also can't promise when the next chapter will be up but I promise to try and make it within the next week. It's difficult balancing two stories with two semi-completely different plots.  
**

**In fact, if anyone would care to check out my other story it's on FictonPress titled _The Survivors_ (lame, I know) and my username is CorgiGirl09 (also lame). It's really only purely for my own entertainment. You might see some parallels to this story as far as a certain character goes. Heh.  
**


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